Contém fofura, romance, ciel phantomhive x leitora duquesa.
Resumo: Um noivado arranjado por pura conveniência corporativa e acordos políticos entre a nobreza britânica une o jovem conde Ciel Phantomhive e a duquesa de uma próspera província industrial. O que deveria ser apenas uma fusão de impérios comerciais e alianças estratégicas transforma-se em um jogo silencioso de descobertas, onde tabuleiros de xadrez, livros de contabilidade e madrugadas frias revelam que a fachada de gelo e futilidade do mundo vitoriano esconde almas profundas, apaixonadas e surpreendentemente vulneráveis.
A névoa de Londres, densa e impregnada com o cheiro de carvão queimado e o vapor do Tâmisa, parecia tentar invadir as frestas da carruagem preta com o brasão dos Phantomhive cravado nas portas de carvalho envernizado. No interior, iluminado apenas pela luz trêmula de uma lamparina de bolso, o silêncio era espesso.
Ciel Phantomhive ajustou o tecido pesado de seu casaco azul-escuro, sentindo o peso invisível de mais um dia exaustivo. À sua frente, no assento oposto, a jovem duquesa mantinha a postura impecável. Ela não olhava pela janela para a paisagem lúgubre da cidade; em vez disso, lia à luz escassa um relatório de distribuição de carvão e minério de ferro proveniente das minas do norte de sua propriedade.
O noivado deles havia sido anunciado há exatos três meses. Nos salões da alta sociedade, nos jornais de fofocas e entre os sussurros invejosos de lordes e damas em bailes abafados, a união era tratada pelo que de fato era: uma transação comercial monumental. A Corporação Phantomhive precisava expandir suas rotas de comércio de jogos sem inflacionar os custos com intermediários, enquanto o ducado da família da leitora precisava de estabilidade financeira e da influência inquestionável do Cão de Guarda da Rainha para afastar as tentativas de monopólio de concorrentes estrangeiros.
Para a sociedade, era a fusão perfeita entre dois gigantes econômicos. Para a alta aristocracia, acostomada com casamentos arranjados por conveniência, era perfeitamente natural que o jovem conde frio e distante se unisse a uma jovem nobre cuja linhagem era tão antiga quanto as pedras de Westminster.
Mas Ciel lembrava-se perfeitamente de suas expectativas iniciais. Ele temia outra Elizabeth.
Lady Elizabeth Midford era sua prima e noiva por um acordo anterior — uma garota adorável, vibrante, mas cuja existência parecia gravitar inteiramente em torno de fitas, vestidos de babados, laços cor-de-rosa e festas de chá. Elizabeth era a personificação da inocência vitoriana, uma boneca de porcelana que feria os olhos de Ciel com sua total desconexão da realidade brutal em que ele operava. Toda vez que Elizabeth entrava na mansão Phantomhive exigindo que ele usasse tiaras de gatinho ou comesse bolos confeitados, Ciel sentia uma exaustão física que rivalizava com a dor de suas feridas antigas.
Quando os acordos para o novo noivado começaram a ser redigidos, Ciel assumiu, com o cinismo inerente à sua alma precoce, que esta nova duquesa seria apenas mais uma peça decorativa. Alguém educada para sorrir educadamente em banquetes, tocar piano de forma aceitável e acenar com as mãos enluvadas de renda para o público.
Ele não poderia estar mais errado.
A carruagem estacou diante da imponente fachada da Mansão Phantomhive. Sebastian Michaelis, com sua casaca impecável e um sorriso que misturava polidez e zombaria silenciosa, abriu a porta com um movimento fluido.
— Bem-vindos de volta, meu lord, vossa graça — disse o mordomo, curvando-se em um ângulo perfeito de noventa graus.
A leitora foi a primeira a descer, recolhendo as camadas de sua saia de veludo roxo-escuro com uma elegância que não exigia esforço. Ela entregou sua sombrinha a Sebastian sem sequer olhar para ele, os olhos violetas fixos na grande escadaria de mármore do hall de entrada.
— Sebastian — disse ela, com aquela voz calma e de tom ligeiramente metálico que costumava desconcertar os criados mais novatos —, os balancetes trimestrais da filial de Manchester chegaram pelo correio da tarde?
Sebastian piscou, um vislumbre de genuína surpresa cruzando suas feições demoníacas antes de retornar à máscara de perfeição.
— Sim, minha lady. Estão sobre a escrivaninha no escritório particular do jovem conde. Juntamente com as cartas de cobrança da alfândega.
— Excelente. Vamos tratar disso antes do jantar. O estômago de Ciel costuma reclamar se ele passa mais de dez horas seguidas sem revisar as contas do balanço de rendimento de açúcar.
Ciel, que acabara de descer da carruagem, estreitou os olhos, sentindo as bochechas queimarem levemente.
— Eu não reclamo, duquesa. Eu constato fatos — retrucou ele, ajeitando o tapa-olho que cobria o contrato faustiano.
— Constatar fatos com o estômago roncando não altera a biologia humana, Ciel. A menos que você tenha descoberto um método para converter ações da bolsa em suco gástrico, o que duvido muito, visto que suas últimas apostas na Companhia das Índias Orientais renderam apenas dor de cabeça.
Sebastian conteve um riso abafado com uma tosse educada, enquanto afastava-se para cuidar dos casacos. Ciel fuzilou a noiva com o olhar, embora houvesse no fundo de sua íris azul um brilho de desafio que ele havia perdido para com qualquer outra pessoa no mundo.
Dentro do escritório, o fogo na lareira estalava, projetando sombras dançantes nas estantes repletas de livros encadernados em couro. Era o santuário de Ciel, um lugar onde o mundo exterior — com suas intrigas parlamentares, assassinatos políticos e rituais macabros — parecia distante.
Enquanto Sebastian servia o chá preto fumegante, a leitora já havia se instalado na poltrona em frente à lareira, abrindo o grosso livro de contabilidade com uma naturalidade desconcertante. Ela não pediu licença para sentar-se na cadeira pessoal do conde; simplesmente puxou os papéis para perto e pegou uma pena-tinteiro.
Ciel permaneceu em pé por alguns instantes, observando-a.
Ela não usava espartilhos excessivamente apertados que a impedissem de respirar ou pensar — uma escolha pragmática que Ciel secretamente aplaudia, pois demonstrava que ela valorizava a própria saúde acima da estética sufocante imposta pela rainha Victoria. Seu cabelo estava preso em um penteado complexo, mas solto o suficiente para deixar escapar alguns fios rebeldes que emolduravam um rosto de traços delicados, porém marcados por uma firmeza inconfundível.
Ela não era Elizabeth. Elizabeth choraria se visse a quantidade de trabalho acumulado ou se sentisse o cheiro de pólvora e sangue que, por mais que Ciel tentasse lavar, parecia impregnar as paredes da mansão. A leitora, por outro lado, respirava aquele ambiente com a serenidade de quem pertencia a ele.
— Você errou aqui — disse ela de repente, apontando com a ponta da pena para uma coluna de números na página de despesas de transporte.
Ciel aproximou-se, irritado por ter sua competência matemática questionada em seu próprio território. Inclinou-se sobre o braço da poltrona, a proximidade fazendo com que o perfume sutil de lavanda e papel velho dela chegasse até ele.
— Onde? O frete marítimo para Liverpool subiu devido aos ventos desfavoráveis do mês passado. O cálculo está correto.
— O frete subiu, sim. Mas você esqueceu de deduzir o subsídio de isenção de imposto portuário que consegui negociar com o Ministério da Marinha na semana passada. O documento foi enviado para cá na terça-feira. Se você tivesse lido a correspondência em vez de jogá-la na pilha de "assuntos irrelevantes", saberia que economizamos duzentas libras naquela rota.
Ciel olhou para o papel, depois para ela. Os olhos dela brilhavam com uma satisfação intelectual incontida. Não havia arrogância na correção, apenas o prazer puro de resolver um quebra-cabeça lógico.
— Você revisou a correspondência ministerial por mim? — perguntou Ciel, erguendo uma sobrancelha.
— Alguém precisa cuidar dos interesses do nosso futuro império corporativo, Ciel. Se eu deixar tudo nas suas mãos, você vai acabar hipotecando a fábrica de tecidos para financiar algum equipamento esquisito que o cientista maluco do seu tio inventou em um porão em Paris.
Ciel abriu a boca para rebater, mas fechou-en logo em seguida. Ela tinha razão. Na semana anterior, ele quase fechara um contrato duvidoso com um inventor francês que prometia máquinas voadoras movidas a vapor comprimido.
— Aquele projeto tinha potencial — murmurou Ciel, desviando o olhar para a xícara de chá, sentindo um calor incomum subir pelo pescoço.
— Potencial para nos levar à falência antes do final do ano fiscal — respondeu ela com um sorriso irônico nos lábios, voltando a mergulhar nos números.
Ciel recuou, sentando-se em sua própria cadeira. Olhou para ela por longos segundos, enquanto a luz da lareira iluminava o perfil de seu rosto. Ele se perguntava, não pela primeira vez, como uma mulher da nobreza havia desenvolvido aquela mente afiada. Em um mundo onde as mulheres eram educadas para tocar harpa e bordar almofadas, a leitora havia passado a infância estudando tratados de economia política na biblioteca poeirenta do ducado de seu pai.
Isso a tornava perigosa. Isso a tornava fascinante.
— Terminado o trabalho com os livros — disse Ciel, cruzando as pernas e apoiando o queixo na mão enluvada —, há algo que preciso discutir com você sobre o baile da próxima terça-feira na residência do duque de Westminster.
A leitora ergueu os olhos do papel, suspirando levemente.
— Ah, o baile onde todos os lordes hipócritas virão nos cumprimentar enquanto tentam descobrir qual de nossas empresas vai falir primeiro. Adoro reuniões sociais. O cheiro de perfume barato misturado com falsidade é revigorante.
— Exatamente por isso — disse Ciel, um canto de sua boca curvando-se em um sorriso cúmplice que raramente exibia para o mundo. — O duque tem tentado obter o monopólio das ferrovias do norte. Ele vai tentar nos sondar durante a valsa. Quero que você aceite dançar com ele.
A leitora estreitou os olhos, a pena parando a um centímetro do papel.
— Você quer que eu extraia informações dele enquanto giro pelo salão?
— Quero que você o destrua intelectualmente enquanto finge estar encantada com os elogios dele sobre o seu vestido. Você é perfeitamente capaz de fazer isso. E, para ser sincero, será divertido ver o velho conde gordo engasgar com o próprio champanhe quando você apontar as falhas estruturais no plano de expansão ferroviária dele.
Um sorriso lento, perigoso e incrivelmente belo floresceu no rosto da duquesa. Era um sorriso que combinava perfeitamente com a alma sombria dos Phantomhive, embora pertencesse a uma mulher de sangue nobre e limpo.
— Seria um desperdício recusar uma oferta dessas — murmurou ela, fechando o livro de contabilidade com um baque abafado. — Mas, já que terminamos os negócios por hoje, tenho uma proposta para você, meu conde.
Ciel ergueu a sobrancelha, desconfiado.
— Que tipo de proposta?
A leitora levantou-se, caminhou até um canto do escritório onde havia uma pequena mesa de mogno com um tabuleiro de xadrez entalhado em marfim e ébano. As peças já estavam dispostas, prontas para o início de uma partida.
— Uma partida. Sem servos, sem relatórios, sem política. Apenas você, eu e o tabuleiro.
Ciel olhou para o tabuleiro, depois para ela. O xadrez era a sua grande paixão intelectual, um reflexo exato de sua visão de mundo: um jogo de estratégia fria, sacrifícios calculados, onde cada peão tinha um propósito e a morte de uma peça era apenas um custo necessário para o xeque-mate final.
— Você ousa me desafiar no xadrez? — perguntou Ciel, com um tom de falso desafio, embora seus olhos estivessem brilhando de entusiasmo. — Sou eu quem costuma vencer os melhores estrategistas de Londres em menos de vinte minutos.
— Os seus oponentes em Londres são velhos ministros entediados que jogam enquanto pensam na próxima amante ou na próxima garrafa de vinho do Porto — retrucou a leitora, sentando-se na cadeira de espaldar alto e puxando as peças brancas para perto de si. — Eu não sou um ministro entediado, Ciel. E garanto que não vou facilitar só porque você tem um título de conde e uma carranca intimidadora.
Ciel levantou-se, sentou-se na cadeira oposta e olhou fixamente para os olhos da noiva. O silêncio na sala tornou-se denso, carregado de uma eletricidade invisível.
— As pretas primeiro, duquesa. Mostre-me do que sua mente é capaz.
A partida começou de forma agressiva. Ciel abriu com a defesa siciliana, buscando controlar o centro do tabuleiro com precisão cirúrgica. Ele esperava um erro tático nas primeiras dez jogadas, uma hesitação típica de quem estudava o jogo apenas como passatempo de salão.
Em vez disso, encontrou uma muralha de lógica.
Cada movimento da leitora era calculado com frieza. Ela sacrificou um cavalo na décima segunda jogada apenas para abrir uma linha de ataque devastadora contra a ala do rei de Ciel. O conde sentiu um calafrio de surpresa pura percorrer sua espinha. Ele teve que reorganizar toda a sua defesa em segundos, movendo seus bispos e torres com uma urgência que raramente precisava demonstrar.
As horas passaram sem que nenhum dos dois percebesse. A lareira começou a crepitar mais baixo, à medida que a madeira se transformava em brasas vermelhas. Sebastian entrou no escritório silenciosamente para verificar se precisavam de mais chá, mas, ao ver a intensidade nos olhos de ambos, recolheu-se sem dizer uma palavra, fechando a porta com suavidade extrema.
No tabuleiro, a situação era crítica. Ciel tinha apenas o rei, uma torre e dois peões acuados no canto esquerdo. A leitora mantinha a dama, um bispo e um exército de peões avançados cercando o monarca negro.
Ciel olhou para o tabuleiro, depois para o rosto dela. Os cabelos dela haviam escapado completamente do penteado, caindo em ondas suaves sobre os ombros. Ela mordia levemente o lábio inferior em um sinal de concentração extrema, o rosto corado pelo calor da lareira e pela adrenalina da disputa.
Não havia nada ali da garota frágil ou da fútil dama da sociedade que a rainha desejava ver em um baile de gala. Havia apenas uma mente brilhante, apaixonada e indomável.
Ciel moveu sua torre para tentar um xeque desesperado.
A leitora olhou para a jogada, sorriu com um canto dos lábios, ergueu a dama de marfim com os dedos delicados e a colocou na casa decisiva.
— Xeque-mate, meu conde.
O silêncio reinou por um momento eterno. Ciel olhou para o tabuleiro, verificando as diagonais, as linhas de fuga, as possibilidades matemáticas. Não havia saída. Ele havia perdido.
Ele, Ciel Phantomhive, o prodígio tático do submundo britânico, fora derrotado em uma partida legítima de xadrez dentro de sua própria mansão por sua noiva.
Em vez de sentir raiva ou frustração, uma onda de um humor estranho e caloroso explodiu no peito de Ciel. Ele encostou-se no espaldar da cadeira, cruzou os braços e soltou uma risada curta, genuína e cristalina — um som que raramente escapava de seus lábios.
A leitora piscou, surpresa.
— Você está rindo? Perdeu a partida de forma humilhante no seu próprio escritório e está rindo?
— Estou rindo porque percebi o tamanho do erro de cálculo que cometi durante todos esses meses — disse Ciel, inclinando-se para a frente, apoiando os cotovelos na mesa e olhando-a diretamente nos olhos, sem a menor sombra de frieza ou distância em sua expressão.
— Erro de cálculo? Sobre o quê?
— Sobre você.
A leitora franziu o cenho, curiosa.
— Quando assinamos este contrato de noivado, eu achei que estava ganhando apenas mais um ativo corporativo para fortalecer as minas e as ferrovias dos Phantomhive. Pensei que teria ao meu lado mais uma boneca de porcelana que passaria os dias reclamando do vento frio e exigindo viagens desnecessárias a Paris para comprar vestidos de seda francesa.
A leitora desviou o olhar por um segundo, sentindo o peso das palavras, mas Ciel continuou, a voz suavizando-se de uma forma que ele próprio não reconhecia.
— Achei que você seria como todas as outras damas da nobreza: vazias, previsíveis, obcecadas por aparências. Mas você não é nada disso. Você é inteligente, implacável, brilhante nos negócios, melhor do que eu no xadrez quando me pego distraído... e, por algum motivo absurdo que ainda estou tentando compreender, você não foge quando sente o cheiro de pólvora ou quando vê o peso que carrego nos ombros.
A leitora sentiu o coração acelerar no peito de uma forma que nenhuma negociação comercial ou proposta de casamento formal jamais conseguira provocar. As bochechas dela coraram de verdade, não mais pelo calor da lareira, mas pela intensidade crua e sincera que irradiava do olhar azul de Ciel.
— E você — disse ela, a voz ligeiramente trêmula, mas firme —, eu também fui enganada. Disseram-me que o conde Phantomhive era um monstro sem coração, um garoto frio que trocou a própria alma por vingança e que tratava as pessoas ao seu redor como meras peças em um tabuleiro de crueldade.
Ela estendeu a mão sobre a mesa de mogno, os dedos passando a centímetros das peças de marfim, até repousar suavemente sobre o dorso da mão enluvada de Ciel.
— Mas um monstro sem coração não passaria horas revisando contas para garantir que os operários das fábricas recebam salários justos antes do inverno. Um garoto frio não riria depois de ser derrotado no xadrez apenas porque reconheceu o valor intelectual de quem está ao seu lado. E muito menos ficaria com essa expressão... incrivelmente fofa quando é provocado por uma besteira sobre o preço do açúcar.
Os olhos de Ciel se arregalaram levemente.
— Fofo? — repetiu ele, com um tom de ultraje indignado, embora houvesse um sorriso inegável dançando em seus lábios. — Eu sou o conde Phantomhive! O Cão de Guarda da Rainha! O homem que comanda o submundo de Londres! Eu não sou "fofo"!
— Oh, sim, você é absolutamente fofo quando tenta bancar o tirano implacável logo depois de perder uma partida de xadrez — disse ela, rindo baixinho, um som melodioso que parecia afastar de vez toda a escuridão e o peso daquela mansão gótica.
Antes que Ciel pudesse formular uma tréplica espirituosa ou fingir uma ofensa digna de seu título, a leitora inclinou-se um pouco mais sobre a mesa. A distância entre os dois diminuiu até que Ciel pudesse sentir o calor do corpo dela e o aroma suave de lavanda que parecia inundar todo o espaço ao seu redor.
Ela não hesitou. Com um movimento suave, ela levou a outra mão até o rosto de Ciel, os dedos roçando levemente a borda do tapa-olho antes de subirem para acariciar a bochecha dele, bem onde a pele estava levemente corada.
Ciel congelou por um segundo. Ninguém — absolutamente ninguém — ousava tocá-lo daquela forma tão direta, tão despida de protocolos, formalidades ou medo. Nem mesmo Elizabeth, em seus momentos mais efusivos, demonstrava aquela espécie de intimidade consciente e madura.
O conde fechou os olhos por uma fração de segundo, sentindo o toque quente e acolhedor. Toda a couraça de gelo, cinismo e dor que ele construíra ao redor de sua alma desde a noite fatídica em que sua mansão queimou parecia trincar, cedendo lugar a uma sensação avassaladora de calor e pertencimento.
Quando ele abriu os olhos novamente, o azul profundo de sua íris encontrou o violeta intenso dos olhos dela.
— Você percebe, não é? — murmurou Ciel, a voz agora um sussurro rouco que mal competia com o estalar das últimas brasas na lareira. — Que este noivado já não tem mais nada a ver com carvão, ferro ou acordos corporativos.
A leitora sorriu, os olhos brilhando com uma certeza absoluta, enquanto os dedos dela continuavam acariciando sua bochecha.
— Nunca teve, Ciel. Nós apenas demoramos um pouco para admitir as regras do verdadeiro jogo.
Ciel levantou a mão e cobriu a mão dela com a sua, segurando-a firmemente contra o seu rosto. Não havia contratos assinados em pergaminho timbrado que pudessem descrever o que estava nascendo ali naquele escritório escuro e aconchegante. Era algo muito mais complexo, muito mais perigoso e infinitamente mais apaixonado do que qualquer aliança política que o Império Britânico já pudesse conceber.
E, pela primeira vez em muitos anos, Ciel Phantomhive percebeu que não precisava de nenhuma vingança ou de nenhum pacto sombrio para encontrar uma razão genuína para sorrir. O xeque-mate já havia sido dado, e, pela primeira vez na vida, ele não se importava em perder tudo para ela.
Ciel/Riddle would be a surprisingly gentle lovers, yet extremely careful with touches. From brief and small hugs, chaste kisses on cheeks, on occasion cuddles at night. But they'd be more openly affectionate through words and quality time.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
I see them as somewhat similar characters and think this headcanon can go for both of them for different reasons. 🤍
Wanted: Dead or Alive, Chapter II: Nothing wrong with a bit of irony
Pairing: Ciel Phantomhive x Reader
Description: As a reformed gang member, you no longer take up your dual derringer pistols in an endless pursuit of wealth. Now, you serve a new purpose: working alongside seasoned professionals as the Earl of Phantomhive’s undercover private army.
Story Warnings: explicit descriptions of violence (with a focus on gun violence) and murder, gore/assorted injuries and pain, death, grief/loss, elaborate theft, explosions/fires, vehicle hijacking, abduction, period-accurate sexism, period-accurate depictions of British imperialism. Story also contains cursing, drinking, smoking, lying, betrayal, explicit sexual content, and class differences. Please feel free to reach out to me if you have any questions about these warnings! Your health and comfort come before any of my creative media.
Author’s Note: Hi Everyone!! It’s been a long time coming, and I’m so, SO excited to finally get this chapter out. I had so much fun working on the research for this story. Guess how many times I had to add “I’m a writer” for each Google search for this one hahaha. Anyways, I hope you all like it. Let me know what you think!!!
I’m hoping to get updates out about once a month.
Happy Reading!!!
Dan <3
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MASTERLIST
. . .
February, 1895
The Phantomhive Estate’s Dining Room
Before the day could have a real chance to start, you had a dreadful sense of it.
Heavy rain drummed dramatically against the estate’s roof, droplets streaming like rivers down the tall vertical windows that lined the north corridor. The sun didn’t stand a chance against the hefty blanket of grey clouds, which decisively sealed away the first light of dawn. Rumbling thunder rattled the wood floorboards as you stalked towards the dining room, fresh tea pot steaming in hand.
About twenty minutes ago the chief of Scotland Yard, Arthur Randall, called Phantomhive urgently, alerting him of yet another robbery in London. This time, it was a high-profile jeweler with significant losses. Three fatalities.
That call roused the entire manor into action about two hours ahead of schedule. No civilized person would be walking a teapot down to a noble before sunrise without a good reason.
The dining room door was open, revealing a dour Earl sitting behind it, making impatient work of swallowing down a scone. He stared at the photographs spread out on his dining table as if they’d personally cursed his family name. That glower scared a great many people, so you’ve heard.
To you, it was just another morning.
Sebastian was in the middle of arranging the last photograph, a wide-lens shot of an exquisite pearl necklace.
“All of this?” Phantomhive questioned, disbelieving heat smoldering in his tone.
The makeshift collage in front of him contained at least a dozen photographs of different sizes and films sat scattered against the varnished mahogany table, precisely cut from an assortment of periodicals. Each one pictured a gem or full jewelery piece. “You mean to tell me it wasn’t just that bloody oversized ruby?”
Oversized ruby? Your eyes widened, and you nearly stopped your approach to the end of the table cold. With a heartbeat’s hesitation, you topped off Phantomhive’s empty tea cup, you took advantage of your proximity to the table to investigate.
The largest print sitting in front of him featured an ornate necklace with five gems encrusted. It was a 16th-century jewel set in a considerably modern mount. The metalwork was recently constructed, given that the gem was in the artisan’s possession at the time of the robbery, instead of the Tower of London’s Jewel House. The Jewel House was the royal family’s vault, holding all of its most valuable artifacts and jewels throughout its lengthy history.
At the sight of this familiar gem, your stomach dropped, dread expanding heavily in your chest like ink bleeding through paper.
Someone stole the famed Timur Ruby. Consequently, Lord Phantomhive, the everlastingly loyal Queen’s Guard Dog, was on the case at five in the morning.
But—
“It’s not a ruby,” you interjected urgently, capturing the Earl’s attention. Failing to recall the look of that historic jewel would be like failing to recognize your reflection. Your next words came automatically as you met Lord Phantomhive’s frustrated gaze. “The Timur’s an irregularly-shaped, red magnesia, spinel.”
The gem’s misnomer originated from the historical understanding that the crimson gem was a ruby. They were practically twins gemologically, but certainly not identical. Until recent history, artisans lacked the chemical science to distinguish a spinel’s signature crimson shade from a ruby’s.
That gem was one of the most prized in the royal collection.
The artisan responsible for refurbishing that 361-carat cabochon from time to time was the monarchy’s first official crown jeweller: Garrard & Co. Not even you were foolish enough to attempt robbing the artisan responsible for all royal commissions.
Regardless of your history there, you never would have risked touching it. As far as you knew, only The Band would, for the right price. A flare of range made your shoulders tense. You wanted to punch someone.
“Y/l/n,” Phantomhive nodded familiarly. A wrinkle creased between his furrowed brows. Exhaustion sat in a dark circle under his eye. He looked a shade paler.
With more force than necessary, the noble dropped two sugar cubes in the cup you just topped off. Then a third. He considered a fourth. After hesitating a moment, he seemed to think better of it. “This investigation would benefit from your expertise. Have a seat.”
That didn’t sound like a request.
You tilted your head and glanced at Sebastian. It was his responsibility to set your schedule for the day. After you served morning tea service, he usually tasked you with polishing pieces of silver, an endless task on this estate. You didn’t understand the utility of having so many sets of the same utensils, and you really didn’t care to learn.
It was ironic if nothing else. You could polish endless piles of silver in your sleep, having mastered the procedure before learning your vowels. The butler had been shocked to see your flawless polishing work. During your first day at the manor, he presumed to give you a thorough start-to-finish demonstration.
You didn’t interrupt, but when he told you to take your time and give it your best, the spotless serving spoon you polished spoke for itself. Evidently, you didn’t confess a word when Sebastian asked how you’d perfected your technique. If you told him… well. The answer included only one of multiple reasons you were wanted by law enforcement at the moment.
“I will see to your tasks for the day,” the butler said brightly. His voice always seemed to carry this polite cadence, even at the most inappropriate times. Such as five in the morning, in the middle of this dismal downpour. “Allow me,” he seamlessly tugged the teapot out of your hands.
Suddenly empty, your hands dropped to your side, fingers flexing uselessly. You frowned, disquieted by the butler’s unprecedented speed and agility.
“What do you want to know?” You reluctantly pulled out the chair next to Phantomhive and settled. He gestured to the wide collection of photos in front of him, and you scanned over their glossy surfaces. The monochrome images featured deep shadows and silvery highlights. Fine lenses caught their intricacies flawlessly.
You raised your eyebrows, inviting a question.
Typically, you weren’t one to spew information out unprompted like a fountain. Like a fool. At a minimum, you usually knew better not to insert yourself in a conversation. You couldn’t say what caused this interjection.
Phantomhive studied you, his stare digging into your periphery. He slowly stirred his tea with one of the smallest spoons you’ve ever seen—or polished—within your lifetime. Balanced between the Earl’s dexterous fingers, the proportion was almost amusing to you. He meticulously broke down the sugar cubes with the bottom of his spoon.
“How did you know the Timur’s a bloody spinel?” Phantomhive replied. The query hinted at something akin to disbelief and suspicion. He sat back in his seat and continued stirring in his sugar, the side of his utensil chiming against the china cup.
“You identified it from this photograph alone.” He set his teacup down and tapped the photo’s glossy surface impatinently. The film was shot in greyscale—you recognized the gem by its shape and luster alone. Even without color on the film. You’d know that spinel anywhere, anytime; frankly, if you were a betting woman, you’d venture to say that you’d know it by handfeel and weight.
“I was a bound apprentice at Garrard until I was, I don’t know, fourteen?” You answered flatly, shifting uncomfortably. Despite your best efforts, you failed to keep your voice free of intonation. The Earl’s unsettling tanzanite stare made your chest feel tight—mumbling out the truth of your life never came easy, anyway. That discerning look burned into you like a bullet. “Guess I picked up on a few things here and there.”
Your earliest memories took you back to a dilapidated orphanage before some local official dragged you to Garrard’s to learn a trade.
Binding out, they called it. Apparently, the crown legislated these involuntary labor contracts between orphanages and assorted trades to dissuade orphans from taking up street crime. So, you spent much of your childhood as an aide to master jewelers, wielding fine steel needle files, engraving chisels, and pliers.
Most of the time, your meticulous eye and steady hands kept you out of trouble. You burnished cast metal and polished silver around the clock. Until your fingers cramped, trembled, and bled.
“You were a contracted apprentice, and yet, you robbed jewelry shops up until a month ago,” Phantomhive enunciated slowly, piecing together the logic of it all. That background taught you what to lift, where to hit. When. How. That expertise made your solo heists so quick and bloodless—you knew your targets on sight.
“I never robbed Garrad’s, evidently,” you shrugged, pursing your mouth into an unrepentant line. You wouldn’t have even ventured to call the site of your former apprenticeship a shop. Its brand was far too venerated, being the monarchy’s chosen artisan. “Nothing wrong with a bit of irony, Phantomhive.”
“I suppose not.”
“If you were a bound apprentice, you would’ve been contracted until adulthood. Why, how, did you—” Lord Phantomhive started, evidently well-versed in the legality enshrined in those contracts. Had you followed your contract’s terms, you would’ve been legally released from Garrard’s around a year ago. The penalties for contract runaways were severe.
Clearing your throat, you pointed to one of the images of the spinel, sitting in an ornate necklace. It’s not like Phantomhive needed that personal information for the good of his investigation.
The nerve of him, you seethed to yourself.
“Garrard designed the gold and diamond setting you see here. It must’ve been there temporarily for refurbishment. They crafted it for versatility. The queen can switch the Timur out with one of her diamonds.”
The Earl’s dissatisfied stare weighed heavily on your skull, but he didn’t interrupt, and you refused to falter. With a fountain pen, he smoothly copied down notes of your commentary on a pocket-sized pad. His loopy script was elegant and small, neat within the thin lines.
Phantomhive wore his focus sternly.
“These here are spinels, too.” To punctuate your point, you tapped the other four jewels encrusted on the necklace’s hardware. They were much smaller than the Timur, seamlessly drawing the eye to the gleaming centerpiece.
The rest of the photographs captured assorted strands of pearls, Ceylon sapphires, and emeralds. The cuts on all of the gems were distinctive—broad and flat to emphasize the color instead of the shine. That was stylistically non-European. It was strange that The Band would target such specific pieces. They tended to favor traditional jewels that would appeal to European tastes throughout the mainland.
You hummed, short and flat.
“Natural pearls are some of the most expensive materials on the planet right now. Do you know the odds of twenty-some oysters producing pearls with the exact same luster, color, size, and shape?” You ventured.
Phantomhive started to answer, but you shook your head and continued your train of thought. He looked impatient, but you had found your bearings. “At the end of the day, they can always dig up another Ceylon, another spinel.”
“—But there’s no forcing an oyster to produce,” he finished for you. Your eyes rolled.
Phantomhive was an atrocious listener. An arrogant one, at that.
“Right. Divers cut open hundreds of thousands.” You said shortly, frustration sharpening your tone. Pearl harvesting was a game of chance, entirely—there was no manufacturing organic nacre, the iridescent substance mollusks secrete to create pearls.
With an agitated sigh, you picked up a photograph of a cluster of emeralds and slid it closer to him. “And these look like a collection. Antique, I’d bet. The sapphires, too. This is all beyond market. Royal grade.” You added, thinking out loud. “None of them are locally mined.”
“From India and Ceylon, presumably?”
“Yes. That includes the pearls,” you confirmed. “But it’s unusual. The Timur spinel is the headline here, but its value essentially comes from its history. Not its gemological value.” You could think of hundreds of other gems that were more valuable, had less notoriety, and were significantly less defended than this spinel was. Even the collections of impeccable Ceylon sapphires and emeralds made for too complex a target for what buyers would pay.
Thunder rattled again. You were decently sure you heard Mey-Rin or Finny squeal a ways down the corridor.
“Of course. Professional thieves target nameless jewels that will disappear into the luxury market without a trace,” Phantomhive’s expression only darkened the longer he thought, that stormy look contending with the violence drumming in the thunder outside. The piercing lightning strikes. “These all have some form of provenance.”
“If all they were after was the value, they would have chosen easier targets,” you said. Near-nameless and small-time artisans and jewelry labels, just like one of the shops you targeted in the weeks before Phantomhive tracked you down. As a professional thief, you lifted and promptly sold off the unengraved gems you clawed into your pockets. They certainly weren’t prized possessions of the bloody crown.
“That means this was an ideologically-motivated hit,” he concluded.
“I suppose.” You worried your lip, thinking over the complexity of this situation. All of your operations with the bandit group in the past targeted gemological value. They’d only go out of their way like this for a hefty commissioner. Who would pay off The Band to carry out such a specific, ideological operation?
And what were you going to do about it?
The gang was hunting you. This was your chance to hunt them with something of a tentative alliance with the Queen’s Guard Dog—a man you once presumed was a myth among London’s underworld. You couldn’t trust the Earl as far as you could throw him, but you knew an opportunity when you saw one.
You had to recognize these circumstances for what they were: suspiciously advantageous.
“We should take our leave, Sebastian. This storm will only slow the carriage down. Are you coming along, Y/l/n?” Phantomhive asked, his tone indiscernible to you. He finished off the small remainder of his tea and pushed his chair in.
“No chance,” you insisted tenaciously, crossing your arms. As much as you itched to examine the scene for clues of The Band yourself, it wasn’t worth risking your neck for it. “The Yard will nail me for bailing seven years early, or if not, for—”
The Earl exhaled through his nose, exasperated. You’re also quite accustomed to that frustrated look, the flare of his nostrils. He always worked his jaw.
“I outrank them. They can’t touch you,” he answered with an edge of finality that competed with yours. Your dubious expression remained unchanged, set definitively like forged cast metal. The set of your mouth clearly communicated your determination.
“Well, that’s reassuring,” you remarked flippantly, tilting your head derisively.
“Y/l/n.” Phantomhive said impatiently, shrugging on a heavy jacket Sebastian brought for him as he rose from his seat. He gestured vaguely with the notepad in his hand, emphasizing the volume of information you’d offered in the past few minutes.
“I have silver to polish,” you snorted derisively, sitting back against the back of the dining chair.
“You have a unique perspective—I need you there more than I do here.” His nostrils flared, betraying the beginnings of exasperation.
“Unique, why?” You answered with an incredulous lift of your eyebrow. “Because I was an apprentice there or because I robbed shops?”
Phantomhive didn’t miss a beat.
A self-satisfied grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, caustic and irritating. “Can it not be both? There’s nothing wrong with a bit of irony,” he said snidely, borrowing your irreverent remark.
He had you there.
“Oh, alright,” you grumbled, sighing through your parted lips. You rolled your eyes, dangerously close to reflecting that smug smirk yourself. That stuttering, warm feeling spreading in your chest perplexed you. “But if I catch so much of a glimpse of handcuffs, I’ll shoot.”
. . .
About an hour later
Garrard & Co., London
The rain was still pounding down by the time the carriage rolled into the city. Drops pattered aggressively against the roof. You watched the grey world roll through the window, peering carefully through the downpour. Isolated rural roads slowly transitioned into the main city’s narrow, uneven streets. The cobblestone roads made the carriage wheels bounce unevenly.
You sat across from Phantomhive, your leg bouncing restlessly underneath your black gown. The gesture made your boot’s thick heel knock against the floor repeatedly, the staccato rhythm of your mounting anxiety. Journeying back to Garrard’s with the Queen’s Guard Dog was one of the most senseless decisions you’ve ever made.
Almost as ridiculous as the trust you once put in your old comrades. If one could even sagely refer to a band of criminals comrades. Never again. Loyalty was a fickle thing. A foolish thing.
A chill ran down your spine, a tangible reminder of how paralyzing the winter wind felt after being pummeled half to death. You sighed, squeezing your eyes shut and opening them.
The incident happened weeks ago, but it could’ve been yesterday.
“Relax, would you?” Phantomhive mumbled under his breath, keeping his stare level with his book. “You’re going to put a dent in the floorboard.”
For the extent of the ride, Phantomhive had been reading the same book, keeping the cover balanced casually in his lap. Expression impassive, almost bored, like a painted portrait. Pensive and meticulously crafted. You couldn’t understand how he could sit still for so long.
Your boot reluctantly slowed to a stop. You released a breath. Then he met your eyes, a step beyond certain.
“Y/l/n. I have complete jurisdiction over this investigation,” he reminded you. “They won’t dare act otherwise.”
“I’m aware,” you answered a beat too hastily. Your fingers tapped aimlessly on your kneecap. “It’s been around nine years,” you stressed. The buildings and pavement around you were only growing more familiar by the block. Even in this rain.
Sebastian stopped the carriage and opened the door. He handed off an umbrella to Phantomhive, a rush of wind causing it to flutter in his grasp. The umbrella was large enough for you to fit underneath without having to crowd Phantomhive. You kept in stride with him easily.
The butler left to tend to the carriage, leaving you and the Earl to the crime scene for the time being.
He shared a curt nod with the officers surveilling the workshop’s front door. Part of the window to the front entrance was fragmented, hastily blocked off with corrugated cardboard to keep out the rain as well as nosy press.
You followed your employer as he crossed the familiar threshold. He closed the umbrella, shook it out, and held it low at his side. While he met a man’s stare in begrudging acknowledgement, you took the opportunity to survey the storefront before you.
It was chaos, to say the least. Bustling with officers, shop managers, artisans and apprentices meticulously taking inventory of the works present, display case by display case. Insurance representatives meticulously ticked off paperwork on their clipboards, their somber expressions taut and grim. Senior clerks and managers exchanged with officers solemnly.
Despite being the perpetrator of countless, you had never seen the aftermath of a jewelry heist.
You assumed most of the damage would be in the back workshops and the cellars, where the most valuable gems and projects remained secured during off hours. Only the artisans with the highest authority wielded the keys to those vaults, but the concrete and steel locks couldn’t have withstood controlled explosives. Whether the target was trains or vaults, The Band was always sure to pack some heat.
“Lovely morning, isn’t it Lord Phantomhive?” Arthur Randall, called out in a gruff, disdainful greeting. The man sported a standard navy officer’s uniform, though his chest pockets were embellished with a variety of colorful insignias to denote his seniority. He extracted himself from a harried conversation with a man you knew to be James Garrard, one of the artisan’s owners. He and his brother, Sebastian, inherited the company from his father.
A look of disdain sat plainly in your honest features.
“Idyllic,” Phantomhive commented, devoid of humor. He didn’t wait to entertain further pleasantries. “What do we have here? Three casualties, correct?”
“Yes. All security. You heard word of all the stolen pieces, we haven’t noted more. The staff is nearly finished accounting for the rest of inventory. Head designer, William Spencer, and Sebastian Garrard are in the middle of questioning,” the chief said absently.
Randall gave you a long, hard look. Two gloved fingers pushed his frameless glasses further up his nose. Recognition flashed across his face; his pursing mouth made his greying mustache twitch.
“Of course you’re foolish enough to show your face here,” Randall glowered, stalking a step closer. You immediately reflected the man’s threatening expression, straightening your spine and standing your ground. You sized up his broad shoulders; he had a number of centimeters on you, but that didn’t mean anything. “I could arrest you right here for…. Where do I begin? Abandoning your parish apprenticeship, half a dozen counts of armed robbery at lea—”
“Keep talking, and we’ll have another crime scene on our hands,” you warned, your dominant hand snapping down to the leather holster fastened carefully around your hips. Your fingertips grazed one of your guns’ polished frames.
Randall started to draw his pistol. Your fingers mechanically unclipped your holster, grazing your derringer’s handle.
Lord Phantomhive raised a dismissive hand, quickly stepping between you and the Yard. “That is quite enough. Both of you: Stand down,” he insisted, steady and authoritative.
Your glare could’ve cut someone. Your eyebrows pinched together, conflicted. Without meaning to, you noticed you were holding your breath. Phantomhive had insisted that he could handle this. Could he?
This might’ve been a mistake. Your chest felt heavy, and each shallow breath came quicker. If this went wrong, you’d be walking out cuffed.
Trust was fatal.
Phantomhive fixed his attention on Randall. “As you know, Y/l/n is employed by my estate. On my authority and good name, she is present today as an informant. Ensure all units under your discretion are aware of that fact. Anyone with concerns, answers to me,” he enunciated loudly, for the rest of the crime scene to hear. Unwavering.
“I anticipate you have received Her Majesty’s permission?” The police chief demanded.
“Randall. Surely you know better than to insult me with such a query,” Lord Phantomhive remarked scathingly, a biting finality rising in his words. He loomed tall, painfully composed for a man willingly standing in the path of two firearms. Stoic as anything. “We are all at this scene for the same bloody reason. Understand?”
Randall studied you suspiciously, gaze glowering. Your hand remained resolutely on your holster, but you didn’t provoke him further.
“Stir up a hint of trouble here, and I won’t hesitate,” he warned you, his grey eyes just as thunderous as the storm outside.
Neither will I, you almost answered, but you thought better of it. Instead, you scoffed indignantly and crossed your arms, drumming your fingers against your overcoat’s thick sleeve.
“Abberline.” Randall barked over his shoulder. With one last visible pulse of hesitation, he released his holster and waved haphazardly to a younger officer with auburn hair. He fidgeted with a pen between his fingers. “Show the Earl to the back vaults.”
“Certainly,” Abberline stepped forward. He’d been in the middle of a discussion with another officer during Phantomhive and Randall’s power struggle. “Good to see you, Lord Phantomhive.”
You could’ve led Phantomhive to the back vaults yourself.
It’d been a little less than a decade since you stalked down this narrow workshop corridor, but you’d know it blindfolded. Years of tireless labor worked the space’s intricate layout into your muscle memory.
The competing scents of metal filings and heavy haze of coal permeated the air. Wood shavings. Polish. Shellac.
Bright gas lamps illuminated the main workroom, crafted especially for gloomy dawns like these. They swung suspended from the ceiling’s wooden beams.
You’d spend hours slouched over the short work benches in this wide space, Garrard arranged them in rows; they were semicircular cutouts where craftsmen and their aides sat. The main furnace was unlit in the corner.
Gravers. Saw frames. Files. Tweezers.
As you walked, your thick heels echoed against the concrete flooring.
The cracked foreman’s bell sat in the same corner as you remembered, its chiming melody would denote the start of morning labor and release you hours before midnight.
The inventory room was still behind the door directly to the left. Ledger and commissions room to the right.
Before you could get a good look at the urgent notices pinned to the corkboard on the far side of the workshop wall, Abberline turned sharp right, towards the cellar entryway. “The vault’s just through here and down these stairs,” he explained, motioning you and Phantomhive to continue following him.
The investigator shared a stern nod with two other officers standing in front of the open threshold, a wide gap in the wall where a massive iron-plated door once stood. Now, that door sat uselessly down the corridor, discarded with warped hinges. Melted and pried off the threshold. The two officers recognized Phantomhive and stepped aside.
You followed them down the concrete steps—every night, you would carry parcels to the bottom of this narrow, winding stairwell as a child and hand them over to a senior clerk. His office was an official security checkpoint that supervised the outer iron gate. You were never permitted to step through it—only the senior craftsmen and managers were permitted inside.
As a child, this vault loomed tall to you. It was vast, unshakable. The heart of this workshop. A labyrinth of meticulously filed and numbered cabinets, stacked to the concrete ceiling.
Now, chunks of crumbled brickwork, steel-reinforced concrete, and thick steel plates sat in devastated shambles; it was nearly impossible to separate in the jagged wreckage of fallen shelves and strongboxes. Bits of brick dust flew scattered in the air, coating everything, from the wreckage in front of you, to the rest of the untouched vault room.
You had to step carefully around a considerable crater in the floor, fault lines cracked around it, the fragmentation pattern serrated unevenly. The acidic scent of ozone and burn chemicals hung low in the stale air, like a cloud, burning your nose.
Beyond the blast, The Band only pried into specific iron-plated cabinets against the North wall—evidently those that held the Timur Ruby, the antique emeralds, Ceylon sapphires, and strings of pearls. All other sections against East and West walls were just left as they should’ve been; after all this time, Garrard never altered its numbering scheme.
You knew exactly where to look. To hinder thieves, Garrard’s vault featured a meticulous and opaque cataloguing system. Senior clerks assigned gem families particular letters, and numbered individual cabinets.
“James Garrard said M-43 here held the Timur,” Abberline gestured to the wide gap between M-42 and M-44. A warped metal cabinet (presumably M-43) sat empty on the floor, its hinges half-melted and half-pried.
“Why would it be categorized under M?” Phantomhive asked.
“For magnesium," you answered flatly. “That’s the gem family’s primary mineral. This system’s supposed to act as fail-safe in the event of a robbery. The emeralds had to be in B-89. For beryl,” you pointed to the empty gap under the B row of columns, you scanned the cabinets to the right of row B and pointed to the next gap you spotted. “The Ceylon sapphires were C-64. Corundum.”
“Exactly,” Abberline said reluctantly, brown eyes warily regarding you. As if he expected you to turn on them at any second.
“Even so, they knew exactly where to locate their targets,” Phantomhive observed.
“Not to mention, sir, forensics recovered gelignite cartridge remnants from this area. Unexploded bits left behind,” Abberline spoke pensively. That information deepened the agitation in both your and Phantomhive’s expressions.
“Gelignite. Just as they found off Southwestern,” the Earl inquired, though by the finality in his tone, you guessed he already anticipated Abberline’s affirmative answer.
The investigator’s chin bobbed down in a hesitant nod as if the truth hurt to speak out loud. “Yes. The same cartridges left behind in Salisbury, the Antwerp diamond heist, and the Calais mail train station—all from this past year.”
Gelignite blasts were a trademark of The Band’s: immensely potent nitroglycerin-based explosives for industrial blasting. Gelatin was a chemical, rubbery substance mixed with combustibles, waterproof and much more concentrated than sawdust dynamite. It wasn’t at all like the consumable gelatin used for desserts.
“Then we know who we’re dealing with,” Phantomhive said decisively, scowling. He bent down, running a gloved finger along the cracked concrete floor. Near-microscopic specks of unburned nitrocellulose and nitroglycerine gathered on his black glove’s smooth surface.
“What could the bloody rodents be after this time?” He questioned rhetorically, rubbing the jelly between his thumb and middle finger and inspecting it. “A heist such as this is unusual for them. It’s not as though they can sell the Timur undetected.”
You swallowed hard.
If the Earl was spearheading this case, he had to be investigating the scene The Band left behind, just kilometers from the Salisbury Train Station, a railway owned by London and South Western Railway. Salisbury was only a handful of stops before the rail line’s London stop. Evidently, you had a hand in each one of the heists Abberline listed off. It wasn’t even a complete list of expeditions The Band ran in the past twelve months, if you were being honest.
“I don’t like the timing of this, my Lord,” Abberline said, shaking his head. He shifted his weight to his other leg and flipped through the slender notepad in his hands. “The Salisbury Explosion was just two months ago—they planned and carried out the assassination of palace architect Sir Harry Swindon. And, as if killing the bloke wasn’t enough, they stole his key to the—”
Your eyes widened. For a moment, your hand flew protectively over your sternum, just over where the key sat tucked underneath your corset. You had to mask your shocked gasp with a little cough into your sleeve. It didn’t sound natural to you, but thankfully, both the Earl and the officer seemed preoccupied with one another.
“Abberline,” Lord Phantomhive cut off the man’s train of thought sharply. Warning gleamed into his tone like a freshly sharpened blade, glaring under the sunlight’s riotous rays. “You are not permitted to speak of that matter in non-secure spaces. Most people do not possess such clearance.”
Like The Band, The Yard and the Guard Dog were also in pursuit of the key the target gave you the day of the accident.
What did Abberline call it?
The Salisbury Explosion. You never thought of the incident in such sensationalized terms—you simply thought of it as the worst day of your life.
With one simple lie, the only person you’d ever considered a friend manipulated you into pouncing on Harry Swindon the moment you located him in his train car. You pressed your pistol to the architect’s forehead moments after your gang detonated gelignite 150 yards up the railroad track, according to plan.
That gave the train conductor just enough time to pull the emergency brake, but the massive locomotive’s momentum was far too great to stop it entirely, causing its front wheels to slip off the disintegrated track. It skittered to a screaming halt, the wheels grinding painfully into the earth.
You clutched a railing inside the train to keep upright, holding Swindon tight by the back of his collared shirt. The moment the train car stabilized again, you kept your pistol’s muzzle flat against the man’s head.
He babbled, begging for his life. In his hysteria, he’d shoved a key into your hand, sobbing, “I know what you’re after. Here, take it. Just don’t hurt me. I have a family. They need me—I love them.”
“That doesn’t mean much to me.”
After fastening the key around your neck and tucking it safely underneath your shirt, you shot him square in the forehead, fulfilling your mission. Or so you thought. With a triumphant grin, you dragged his body out of the train car to your awaiting superiors. Your arms strained with effort, but adrenaline more than made up for it.
“Swindon cried like an infant,” you reported flippantly, carelessly dropping the man’s body into the snow like a limp doll. You were seconds from presenting the key to Captain Menter; you parted your lips to ask him what or where it would unlock, but what came out was a pained gasp.
The captain struck you hard across the face. Pain exploded across your cheek, and you stumbled back, touching the red impact wound disbelievingly. Salty reflex tears shone in your eyes.
“Why is he dead as stone, Y/l/n?” He demanded, frostier than ice. “Your orders were to retrieve the key, and take him back here breathing. Damn you. You have no idea what you’ve cost us,” he hissed, wrinkles deepening around his eyes.
Your vision blurred as you scanned your gathered comrades rapidly for your friend. “Take him alive?” You questioned, completely aghast. “The lieutenant told me that priorities changed—”
“Lieutenant Menter?” The chief barked. He’d been ready to strike you again, but he hesitated, sparing his son a burning, hostile look. Incredulous that his own blood would be the root of such a blunder. That trust would always beat a gang’s star shot. Save for Chief Menter himself, every member of The Band was replaceable. That understanding kept every active member working to their fullest capacity.
“I told her to take him alive, father. But she lost her temper and shot him. She’s a liability,” he spat resentfully, looking you smugly in the eye. There was no trace of familiarity, the closeness he regarded you with just hours ago. Your mind’s eye torturously recalled the day he told you that your life was worth more than polishing useless rubbish and handed you your first pistol.
He looked like a complete stranger to you, sneering so maliciously. Signing your death warrant and savoring every moment of it. You couldn’t comprehend why.
“What?” You asked helplessly, panic rising in your chest. Then, white-hot rage. Your voice was thick, wavering as your throat tightened. “No—just before A-Team set off to blow the rail, he told me—”
“She’s lying. You know she can’t control herself. She’s a bloodthirsty jade.”
“No! I—” you couldn’t finish the sentence.
“You know we don’t tolerate liabilities, foolish girl. This operation was priceless.” the chief seethed smoothly. “You’re finished here. I ought to kill you for the inconvenience,” he looked to his top enforcers. “Teach her a lesson she won’t forget.”
They swept your boots out from beneath you, landing you back first in the powdery snow. The impact knocked the wind out of your lungs, forcing you to heave for air. Chief Menter’s steel-tipped boot landed an angled kick against your ribs, causing a bolt of jarring agony to tear through your chest. Someone nailed your lower back.
You exclaimed, raw and unmeasured, trying to form the truth, but it couldn’t surface. Instead, the animalistic noise caught in the base of your throat and you choked on it. All you could do was sputter and curl inward on yourself in a desperate attempt to defend your most vulnerable points. You shivered violently as snow soaked through your clothes; those winter layers were your only saving grace against those merciless kicks.
Evidently, nine years of dutiful service, careful shooting, and grit meant nothing against the word of Lieutenant Menter. The boy who first pulled you out of that miserable workshop and gave you your first semblance of agency in this world.
Someone tore your guns off their holsters.
Between the anguishing haze of being beaten into the snow and your mounting rage and fear, you thought the distant explosion had been a figment of your imagination. It was a deafening roar, a blurry blast of red flames and smoke, the blinding color illuminating the countryside’s nightfall. The ground trembled under your bleeding body.
Like you, the locomotive had reached its breaking point. Must’ve been the boiler room.
Horrified civilians screamed and sobbed. Some limped uncomprehendingly around the rubble, in search of loved ones or their possessions. It seems most passengers had already dismounted the grounded locomotive, but there had to be numerous casualties.
The bandits around you instinctively covered their heads, taking defensive postures. Once they recovered from their shock, they refocused on the chief. Awaited orders.
Using every bit of strength you had left, you dragged yourself away from the group, every battered muscle in your body ached. Icy snow crunched around you. Warm blood dripped from your nose, running down your chapped lips and chin. Your ears tingled, but through the static, you distantly heard Chief Menter speak again, as apathetic as ever. “Forget her. Check his body for that damned key. If it’s not on him, search the wreck. Be quick about it. We gotta get out of here before the Yard gets word.”
Your world went black.
The next time you returned to consciousness, you found yourself in a workhouse infirmary, bedridden and in a great deal of pain. You snuck out that night—before a nurse could check on you—and rapidly rebuilt your life. You stole from city jewelers for days on end, until Ciel Phantomhive tracked down your new doorstep.
“Something wrong, Y/l/n?” The Earl’s posh tone tore through your stupor, snapping you back to reality. He and Abberline had turned back towards the stairwell, and you lingered several beats too long, eyes wide and detached on the rubble under your boots.
“No,” you lied, fighting the knot rising in your throat. “We should get moving, we have work to do.”
Apparently, you and Lord Phantomhive had a common purpose.
But the timing was too serendipitous, come to think of it. He was leading the Salisbury Explosion investigation, the assassination of Royal Architect Harry Swindon that you committed. He and his butler tracked you down after a month and a half after the accident. With a convenient work offer.
The Earl never took unnecessary action—he had to have some idea of your involvement in Salisbury, then. Your employment was a tacit strategy to keep a close eye on you and use you as an informant.
You laughed wryly to yourself, climbing the steps behind the noble and the investigator. So, that was why he refused to let Abberline talk about the key’s destination out loud. Not even the press reported on the missing key.
Considering your minimal trust in Phantomhive, you couldn’t be offended without being a hypocrite. At least, your hesitation was justified.
Sebastian waited in the workshop for Lord Phantomhive. Once Phantomhive, you and Abberline crossed the busted threshold, he bowed at the waist like the smug bastard he was.
“My Lord, Miss Y/l/n. Apologies for my absence,” the butler said, righting his lean shoulders again. Despite the pouring rain, he seemed mostly dry. You assumed he left his umbrella at the shop’s front door; the Yard had to be familiar with the Earl’s Head Butler.
“The Yard found gelignite at the explosion site,” Lord Phantomhive said, extending his glove towards Sebastian. Some of the gelatin remained on his glove—his butler swabbed it. You didn’t know Sebastian had an understanding of chemical compounds, but somehow, you weren’t surprised. “I want you to do a sweep of the southwest countryside again. They hit Garrard’s around four in the morning—they can’t be far.”
As Phantomhive updated Sebastian, you showed yourself around the main workshop. Pausing at the urgent notices board you passed by earlier, you couldn’t help but laugh.
In the center of the bulletin featuring shop safety posters, newspaper clippings, design mockups, and comedically large calendar was a clipped news handbill. It was a photograph of you as a fourteen-year-old apprentice with the blocky text beneath it reading Wanted: Dead or Alive. Smaller print underneath it listed some of your crimes: Murder, abandoning your contracted apprenticeship, armed burglary, abduction, destruction of property.
You’ve seen that handbill all over the city—different variations of the same idea. The same photograph, even, it was all they had. This was nothing new.
“Is that all?” You asked ambivalently, shrugging your shoulders. “They certainly missed some.” If you hadn’t been surrounded by officers, you might’ve suggested they add a few more, for accuracy’s sake. Receiving stolen goods, railway sabotage, possession and/or use of explosives…Perhaps, printing your long paragraph of crimes would’ve required too much ink.
Your sarcastic snicker caught the Earl and his butler’s attention. Phantomhive’s stare cut to you, darted to the news handbill behind you, and returned to your irreverent face. He raised an eyebrow, begrudging amusement slipping through his noble facade.
He hummed shortly, a low note of observation. “That would’ve taken up the whole page of the pamphlet.”
“True,” you shrugged, a short chuckle escaping your lips. The easiness in it took you by surprise, a light, fluttering feeling jumping in your stomach. You wound the bottom of your braid around your index finger tightly. You felt strangely hyperaware of your body—what your hands were doing, how close you stood to him.
“In any case, you were meant to dispose of the last of these, Sebastian,” Phantomhive said, forcing the remnants of sardonic humor out of his tone. That had to be why Sebastian was late—he’d been using his unsettling speed to rid the main city of each copy. Although you weren’t especially ashamed of your reputation, you couldn’t afford to let The Band locate you before you were prepared.
“Forgive me,” Sebastian sounded about as apologetic as you felt. “That copy should be the last of them,” he said.
“For now,” you tutted. Stepping past the butler, you tore down the poster and neatly folded the thin paper in half. You stuck the handbill in your pocket, eager to take it back to the manor as room decor for your quarters.
. . .
That Night
The Phantomhive Estate
You could see your breath in the chilled night air. The rain finally stopped, leaving behind the earthy smell of petrichor. Moisture sat heavily in the air. Grass squelched under your boots and your heels dug into the soft, water-logged dirt.
The moon peeked out from the clouds covering the black sky. The silver light illuminated the property around you just enough for target practice. Sharp gusts of wind made the tips of your ears feel numb.
Rolling your shoulders back, you aimed your right pistol at a wooden target nailed to a distant tree and pulled the trigger. With a clamorous blast, the bullet landed precisely in the middle of the panel. Your left pistol nailed the makeshift target just below it.
“Isn’t practice supposed to challenge you?” Lord Phantomhive’s voice cut through the night’s quiet, making you startle. You bounced on the soles of your boots, immediately turning on your heel to face him. “Might as well shoot a fish in a barrel.”
“Isn’t it past your bedtime?” you asked sarcastically, tilting your head.
The Earl didn’t immediately dignify the remark with a real answer. The corner of his mouth twitched with the beginning of a smirk and he shook his head. Bits of warm firelight from the lamp in his hand highlighted his angularfeatures. “Not when the crown jeweler’s been robbed of historic jewels.”
You raised your eyebrows once, offering an acknowledging nod. Fair enough.
“Do you have a better idea, then?” You asked dubiously.
“Yes.” Phantomhive’s hand dipped into his overcoat pocket and emerged balancing two glass balls, each the size of a tennis ball. The moonlight luminously refracted off their cobalt surface, emphasizing their quilted surface. “Try these. They’re Bogardus target balls. Sebastian finished them in limewash—you’ll see them in the dark,” he explained.
The brittle glass pieces looked delicate in his palm, sparkling like Christmas ornaments. The limewash amplified their shine, making them glint metallically. They clinked together delicately on his bare palm, and he set his lamp on a rock to ready one of the balls.
That smug look in Phantomhive's eye dared you.
Without warning, he took a few steps back, and flipped a target ball in the air. It soared against the black night sky, streaking blue and silver like a falling star. Immediately, your back straightened and you widened your stance. Your middle finger pressed down your pistol’s trigger.
Craning your neck up, you tracked the glass ball’s arc, predicting its movement with trained ease. The second your eyes locked on apex, you didn’t hesitate.
An earsplitting crack shocked the atmosphere as your derringer barked, spitting a led bullet that speared the glass ball in a dynamic blast. The shot echoed in the midnight silence deafeningly, the muzzle flash cutting orange and fiery.
The derringer pistol’s incredible firepower always impressed you—the barrels were only three inches—practically microscopic compared to most other arms. Despite the small diameter, the bullet’s impact immediately pulverized a target into a puff of glass, chalky mineral paint and silver dust. The remnants slowly cascaded in the air with the subdued grace of falling snow.
“Not bad,” Phantomhive tossed another, throwing you off guard. You could hardly track it through the hazy remnants in the sky. Frustrated, you clenched your teeth. That miss allowed the glass target to shatter against the grass with an anticlimactic thud. “You were only a centimeter or so off,” he said unapologetically.
A few beats of dissatisfied silence followed as you took a few steps closer to the glass wreckage, inspecting it.
“I get the sense you didn’t come out here just for target practice.” You arched an eyebrow, pulling down your pistols’ safety locks. They clicked into both holsters against your hipbones, fitting against the leather like puzzle pieces.
You fashioned your expression into something more neutral than you felt. Your eyes tore down to the broken target ball for a moment, then back to Phantomhive. After another pulse of quiet, you continued, “I have something to ask you.”
“As do I.” His expression was unchanged, composed. Entirely nonplussed. A gust of wind carded through his dark hair—it was slightly more mussed than usual, given the late hour. The moonlight made him look even paler.
“At the same time?” You suggested, taking another step closer to him. That brought you face to face.
Phantomhive adjusted his posture and tilted his head down towards the grass for a moment, giving it a disbelieving shake. His amusement registered as a short puff of air through his nose. There was a rasp in his voice, the remnants of a low chuckle he swallowed down. Still, his words came perfectly level, if a little clipped. “Alright. Go.”
“Did you track me down because you’re investigating Salisbury?" Your teeth sunk into the inside of your bottom lip.
“Were you once affiliated with a highly-mobile gang of thieves?”
You stared at each other for a moment, mirroring one another’s aggravation and reluctant admiration. A tiny knot of muscle flexed at the side of his jaw, clamping down most of a smug smirk. For a moment, only the sound of rustling tree branches stood between you.
Phantomhive was first to speak, the neutral line of his full lips unreadable. That ocean gaze unblinking. “Then I take it you were.”
You shrugged haplessly, though your heart drummed heavily. A painful ache in your ribcage pulsed dully, reminding you of the heavy kicks you sustained. The anxious rhythm reminded you of the earth-shaking thunder that plagued the city for most of the day. “It ended poorly.” Your voice escaped with a tremor.
“It ended poorly?” Phantomhive repeated flatly.
“That’s what I said,” you said impatiently, eyes widening. “I’m—we’re not on friendly terms. That’s why you hired me, isn’t it?” You asked, scouring his inscrutable face. “Being your informant wasn’t in the initial job description, I hope you’re aware.”
But then again, if Phantomhive had mentioned The Band when you had him pinned against a wall at gunpoint, his brain matter surely would’ve stained your floorboards. You wouldn’t have hesitated.
“The workhouse infirmary nurse found you unconscious and gravely wounded, kilometers away from the Salisbury wreck,” Phantomhive said. “You ran off before they even knew you were conscious. After the robberies, it wasn’t hard to locate you. Your birth certificate and apprenticeship contract are in the national registry and your likeness was posted around the city,” he explained, tugging another target ball out of his pocket. His eye gleamed in the moonlight just as elegantly as the glass did.
Those bloody handbills.
You cringed, laughing bitterly. At least Sebastian had taken the liberty to tear them down for you. That had been part of your conditions coming into your work here at the estate.
“We seem to have a common cause. It’s as I said: your unique perspective can be an asset to this investigation,” Phantomhive spoke with a calm certainty, tossing the ball in the air and catching it again. The glass clinked softly against his rings when it landed back on his palm. “Cooperate with me, and we’ll put them behind bars. We will see to it that they are brought to justice.”
Again, you knew an opportunity when you saw one.
Phantomhive could confirm the confidential destination of the key hanging around your neck. It was a bargaining chip with unknowable leverage, and you desperately needed the full picture before you made your next move. With his resources and connections, you could hunt down those heartless conspirators much sooner than you’d planned.
Spill their blood across the snow, no matter what Phantomhive had in mind.
“Fine,” you said simply. “I’ll do it.”
As you shook his hand, you had a lingering feeling that you’d just finalized a deal with a devil.
in love and in war, drabble 6.5: the one where you cross swords
Description: Join Ciel, the Earl of Phantomhive, as he embarks on one of the most difficult challenges of his professional life: getting you to fall in love with him in order to become the next chairman of TransAtlantica, your father’s vast shipping empire.
Pairing: Ciel Phantomhive x Reader
Warnings: None!
Author’s Note: hi my loves, surprise!! here’s that update i owe you all. it’s a tad under-edited so i’ll probably go back in and make some tiny changes soon, but i hope you enjoy reading it!!
i’m so excited to hear your thoughts, i miss you all so so much 🫶🏼
happy reading!
dan
⇐ PREVIOUS DRABBLE | NEXT DRABBLE ⇒
MASTERLIST
Ciel Phantomhive
St. Dunstan’s Athletic Hall
To anyone else, watching the way the rest of the bout unfold was a damn shame—comparable to observing a carriage wreck collide in slow motion. One miscalculated parry quickly devolved into two, and Y/n looked more surprised than anyone else in the hall. Ciel Phantomhive wasn’t known for his compassion, but even his lips pursed in a grimace.
After all, he knew better.
Everyone else would assume her sword arm dipped prematurely, a misinterpretation of the angle Lady Harrington’s blade followed. They’d conclude that her arm extended in an overeager parry. It was ill-timed and unfortunate, compared to the immaculate precision she displayed thus far.
But the fact of the matter was much more complicated than that.
For the past two rounds, Sebastian returned to Ciel’s side faster than he could process his departure. He hardly noticed he left, and that was with a little more than a decade’s worth of experience with his butler, who’s a downright dastardly demon. The Earl meant that literally.
His jaw tensed as he watched Lady Y/n blink away her unborn tears and shake Lady Harrington’s hand. Her disdain for showing such sportsmanship to the opponent she’d just had perfectly within her reach was palpable enough. Red flooded her face, painting her mortified.
“What the hell did you do, Sebastian? She was about to win. I told you—” Ciel demanded impatiently. He turned to face him, staring daggers. His fingers curled into fists at his sides. All Y/n needed was one final riposte to her opponent’s torso, and the bout would have been spokien for.
“You ordered me to drive the lady into your loving arms by any means necessary,” the demon answered plainly, eyes glowing just the barest hint of pink-hued crimson. He smiled serenely, watching the defeated noblewoman shake her opposition’s hand with palpable amusement. “You can trust that my actions will always be tantamount to achieving that end.”
“How could her loss possibly benefit me?” Ciel snapped incredulously, eyebrows drawing together as he watched the Yorkshire team receive their narrowly won first-place medals. Elizabeth and Y/n’s team took turns shaking hands with the victors and the other participating teams. They wanly accepted their silver medals.
“Miss Y/n will be in need of an experienced fencer who might reassure her of her skill,” Sebastian remarked, tilting his head guilelessly. “You do recall all those years I coached you, don’t you, sir?” The Earl’s memory supplied hundreds of hours practicing with the demon—sweating, suffering, cursing. Bleeding, in most cases.
“Sure. I have the scars to prove it,” Ciel remarked dryly. He begrudgingly reckoned that this was what he deserved for assigning the role of matchmaker to a sadistic supernatural being.
“This would be the perfect time for you to brush up on some of those skills. And you’d be smart to tell her she fenced beautifully,” Sebastian directed, ignoring his comment. Ciel’s fingers clutched the varnished banister in front of him in a tight squeeze, channeling his frustrations in the iron grasp. “Your endorsement will mean a great deal to her.”
“Evidently,” Ciel sighed, attempting to fashion his face into something neutral. The key to unlocking her heart was proving himself dependable in times of crisis, even if such vulnerability put a sour taste in his mouth. Even if it was unrealistic and fantastical. Whether it was a trip on the pier or a miraculously endangered child, Y/n would choose the man she trusted the most to be her husband, at the end of the day. And her father would extend his blessings to the candidate that would steer his shipping empire to growing its monopoly.
It was Ciel’s responsibility, his mission, to ensure that he would be that man. He didn’t care which superfluous society events he’d have to sit through to prove it. After all, he was clever enough to attend Y/n’s tournament, and as far as he knew, there were no blond, audacious retired military officials haunting the premises.
Against him, Biceps for Brains didn’t stand a bloody chance. Childhood friendship be damned.
Lady Y/n trudged off the fencing piste, her helmet tucked under her arm, her blade dipped low, and her posture sulking. Absolutely perturbed. As far as Ciel could see, she wasn’t too different from him: unaccustomed to loss and nauseated by the prospect of it. She made a pointed effort not to look his way as she stalked off the main floor, reuniting with her disheartened team.
Lizzie immediately wrapped her arm around Lady Y/n, her eyebrows knitting and her mouth soft and sympathetic. Their other two teammates flanked their sides.
. . .
Y/n Y/l/n
Looking your teammates in the eye was nothing short of painful—brutal and burning as if you’d decided to stare into blinding sunlight. You didn’t dare look at your parents or even Lord Phantomhive. It was difficult enough to hold your head high as you stalked out of the main hall, towards one of the private salles where St. Dunstan’s organizers directed the tournament’s participants to store their gear.
Lady Elizabeth’s consoling arm around your shoulders did nothing to ease the world-shattering guilt weighing down your shoulders. “We would have won a second season in a row. I destroyed our chances,” you lamented, tone low and miserable.
“The score was incredibly close. It never should have come down to this one match,” she assured you, matching your strides step for step as you walked. Samantha and Vivian repeated similar warm sentiments, all consoling smiles that didn’t quite meet their sad eyes.
You all had something you hoped to prove, and you shattered that opportunity. The worst part: It had been well within your grasp.
“Those rounds happened so fast,” you said, strained words resigned. Your eyes stung terribly, you blinked hard in hopes to moisten them and dissuade the tears that threatened to fall.
“There’s always the end-of-season tournament,” Vivian chimed in. “We’ll show them next time.” Your teammates shed their gloves and left their blades in the salle, opting to remain in uniform for the post-tournament fundraiser.
You set your fencing mask down and pulled off your leather gloves, dropping them on the wooden bench next to you with more force than necessary. With a sigh, you took a seat, abandoning your ladylike posture to hunch over and hide your face in your clammy hands.
The rest of your team started filing out of the salle to join the festivities. All proceeds from admissions and afternoon tea were slated to go towards a children’s aid nonprofit.
“You shouldn’t be this hard on yourself,” Elizabeth gave you a lingering pat on the back of your shoulder. “Take your time, and we’ll see you out there. There’s supposed to be some lovely sweets.”
You nodded your gratitude. She and the rest of your team filed out, leaving you to your lonesome.
Only then, you let hot tears stream down your cheeks, your throat tight. Your shoulders shook with the effort necessary to silence your quiet cries, your breath coming in short bursts through your mouth.
All you needed to win was one last point. Yorkshire was a full two points training. You essentially gift wrapped and handed them that win. A step further than mortifying.
You wiped your wet cheeks clear. You sniffled as you worked for control over your breathing. Shortly, you managed to breathe equally.
After you gave yourself a few extra moments to grieve, you reshifted your focus. Time to move forward.
There was no sense in crying over a finished game—your tears wouldn’t change the outcome or give you another chance. The silver medal hanging from your neck proved that. From here, all you could do was practice dutifully and learn a lesson in hubris and humility.
You pulled the medal over your head and dropped it with the rest of your belongings. As you rose to your feet again, your fingers reluctantly wrapped around your blade’s handle. You stepped onto the salle’s small piste, made to suit players’ practice bouts. The wall-length mirror reflected your alert stance, and you gave yourself a scrutinizing once over.
Your mind’s eye flashed through those bouts—the way your parry overzealously dipped. For all of your cultivated talent, it was difficult to imagine that you would misinterpret the same maneuver twice in a row. No matter how tired you were. It was almost as strange as your heel catching on the pier, you supposed, your body having moved before you could register the cause. These uncanny circumstances seemed to be following you around this season. Like some sort of bored supernatural being playing you for sport.
Come on, Y/n, get yourself together. The ridiculous thought made you laugh miserably. The noise caught in your throat, and tears threatened to fall again. You wiped any remaining tears from your cheeks with the back of your hand and rolled your shoulders back, stretching your back muscles.
You slid your fencing gloves on again. Completely resolute in your determination. You would perfect your technique and return even stronger at the end of the season’s tournament. To prove yourself worthy to yourself, your family, your team.
Envisioning the line of attack, you extended your sword and turned your wrist into position. You adjusted the angle just so, eyes tracking your reflection in the mirror.
Swiping the blade down hard, you weighed the motion, the parry in six’s arch. You repeated the same technique over and over again, analyzing what might’ve went awry. You studied each small movement until you were breathless, not from crying, but from exertion.
You were a diamond in the Richmond legacy. Your parents’ only child, the manifestation of their pride and the long, lasting lineages that came before them. Losing one fencing tournament wouldn’t change that. All you had to do was—
“You’ve got the idea, but you’re overextending. You leave your side open,” Ciel Phantomhive’s stern voice dragged you back to your senses; his tall reflection joined yours in the mirror. You were mid-motion, blade poised in the air. A show of your shock, your sword arm fell instantaneously. You turned to face him properly, bleary eyes wide.
A surprised smile tugged at your reluctant lips, nothing more than a diminutive curve at the edges of your mouth.
Sebastian and Daphne trailed inside after him. She knew you preferred space after disappointments such as these and had been waiting just outside the door for you. But the maid shot you a wink and an encouraging smile, establishing herself near the threshold to supervise.
“Beyond that, you fenced beautifully,” Ciel said, joining you on the piste. The corner of his mouth lifted in his conception of a mirthful expression. Sarcastic just at the edge. The room’s natural light danced in his blue eye. “You should be proud of your efforts today. You’re decently formidable. As I recall, you said so on the pier, and I wanted to see for myself. Not to mention, my cousin adores you.”
“I can hardly believe I forgot the two of you are cousins.” You laughed wryly, searching his stoic face for a hint of deceit. Formidable, he said, in that shrewd, witty manner of his that you’ve come to derive as the Earl’s idea of intimate honesty. When you compared Ciel and Elizabeth, almost no similarities rose to the front of your mind. Neither in appearance nor disposition. Where Lizzie was welcoming and radiant, the Earl was reserved and a tad standoffish. The sun and moon, yin and yang.
“I reckon there isn’t a lot of family resemblance between us,” Lord Phantomhive commented breezily.
“Right. I suppose there’s not,” you agreed, laughing a bit too weakly to mean it in full. You cast your gaze away for a moment, off to the side. “That said, you can’t mean all that. Didn’t you see the final match? I—” You started to reproach yourself, only for Lord Phantomhive to raise a dismissive hand. He shook his head and interrupted you.
“—You’re far from without skill. Honestly. You won the rest of your bouts. Your ripostes are lethal. Few fencers can say the same.” He spoke with enough certainty for both of you, as if your talent was an indisputable fact. Just as sure as Newton’s Laws of Motion. His commentary wasn’t so obsequious that you thought he was patronizing you, either. They were objective observations.
“Well, thank you. I appreciate that—and your coming here today.” Your face felt warm. He was the Queen’s Guard Dog, the head of the Funtom Corporation, and he took the time out of his hectic schedule to sit through hours of fencing matches to watch you. Apparently he possessed the care to find and console you, when you didn’t immediately join the rest of the players and your community in celebration.
“Your talent is a wonder to observe,” he affirmed to you, as a matter-of-fact. Not overzealous. Not patronizing.
A wonder? Your stomach filled with butterflies. You cleared your throat, unsure of how to best take the compliment. All you could do was smile nervously.
Lord Phantomhive took mercy on you and filled your bashful quiet by asking when you’d be joining the festivities. He studied your face tactfully, gauging your mood. More than likely observing the remnants of your tears—wet eyelashes, shiny eyes.
But you were beginning to feel better. Honestly. Lord Phantomhive had proved himself so unmistakably considerate. You never would have anticipated this from a sly businessman like him.
“I’ll join the others soon. But first, I need a few minutes to perfect that parry,” you insisted. You shifted eagerly on your feet; your resolve forced away any hint of your exhaustion.
. . .
Ciel Phantomhive
The plan was working well. Ciel smiled slightly, satisfied that he had crafted his words flawlessly, if the look in Y/n’s eyes was any indication. It wasn’t even too difficult; finding ways to compliment her technique had been easier than he thought. He could say so without lying. That was a fact.
He had delighted somewhat in watching her competitive streak come to life again.
“As I said, you have the idea. All you need is a few adjustments. Shouldn’t take long,” He advised, smiling a little indulgently in sardonic challenge.
With a new sense of purpose, Ciel stepped off the piste and shrugged his blue morning coat off. He draped it over the wooden bench and to free his wrists, he rolled his sleeves up his forearms.
Lizzie’s fencing gloves sat on a wooden bench—Ciel recognized the pair by her embroidered initials, the pink threading just at the wrist cuffs. He fastened them on his hands, certain his cousin wouldn’t mind. She all but suffocated him with her gleeful embrace when he told her why he would be attending her tournament.
“You know, fencing practice is far more productive with an opponent,” Ciel said pensively. He abducted Lizzie’s blade and studied it in his hand, weighing it, testing how the hilt felt in his grip.
As he rejoined Lady Y/n on the practice piste, he couldn’t help but take note of the slow smile spreading across her face. It was a little brighter this time—restorative, radiant, like the sun’s rays managing to peek out from behind foreboding storm clouds. She flushed from his remarks, her lips twitching in contest with suppressing a hopeful grin.
The Earl’s countenance eased somewhat, reassured. He had this.
What did it matter if Ciel had cautiously projected this exact exchange in the forefront of his mind? He meant what he said. Every syllable of it, really. The lines were coming easier to him, now. At least in comparison to the beginning of the season.
“You’re honestly challenging me to a bout, Lord Phantomhive?” Lady Y/n laughed reluctantly. The questioning one that fluttered out of her chest when she was uncertain. Bashful. She tugged some stray hair behind her ears.
“I am. So tell me. What do you say?” Ciel asked conspiratorially, as if they were scheming some sort of crime. He felt somewhat indulgent and much more impishly animated than he’d typically find himself. There was something inviting about her that he couldn’t name. Infectious. It was as if he couldn’t help himself.
Ciel fastened on Lizzie’s gloves. Her hands were smaller than his, but the soft leather was forgiving enough. It wasn’t so tight around his knuckles that he’d disfigure the shape. He flexed his fingers experimentally, testing the stiff give. “We may have a thing or two to teach one another,” he prodded.
“I can take you on,” Y/n agreed, after a few beats. She grinned.
“Good,” Ciel answered, brightening. Analytical. Amused. He showed himself to the piste’s opposing side and readied Elizabeth’s blade in en garde. His dominant foot stepped forward, his other foot perpendicular, and a step back.
“Best of three?” She suggested, her mouth pursing with focus. The noblewoman reflected his stance, stepping back and tipping her blade at Ciel with a soldier’s austerity. His heartbeat picked up in his chest, his awareness narrowing around her and the platform they occupied.
“Yes. Best of three.” Ciel confirmed. He cast a sidelong look at his butler. “Would you count us off, Sebastian?”
The demon didn’t hesitate, stepping forward. He counted off in French, and called out, “en garde prêts allez!” His gloved hand gestured downwards to signify the start of this unofficial bout.
Ciel set his jaw.
How could he fence with her constructively without handing her too sound of a defeat? Taking a quick loss to him would make this whole effort meaningless. But he wasn’t about to make it easy. Never that, from the head of Phantomhive.
She feinted on him, to start off. Pretended to commit to direct thrust before disengaging just centimeters beneath his blade. Mid-extension. She lunges opposite his opening line. Smart, complex.
After observing her fencing signatures for nearly a full day, he saw it coming, but he chose not to nip the feint at the bud, so as not to discredit her.
The gentlemanly thing to do.
Ciel counter-parried once he was certain her blade cleared out. He could have pressed, but didn’t return her offensive with the same oppressive intensity. His blade thrust directly, but light. Enough so, that the noblewoman could step back slightly, rather than hustle a blade defense together.
. . .
Y/n Y/l/n
Lord Phantomhive’s years of training certainly weren’t lost on you. He struck precisely, embodying the same degree of caution and wit he did in all other pursuits. Crossing blades with him with just as much a mental effort as it was an athletic one—he certainly wasn’t the Queen’s Guard Dog for no purpose—schooled and raised to fulfil his duty to perfection. In that way, you were alike, born and raised to dedicate your life to a particular purpose.
You had much more in common than you previously thought.
The Earl infringed on your half of the piste, extending his arm fully in a high point-in-line. It was a beckoning invitation to draw closer.
But he didn’t swing beyond that, missing that side had been vulnerable for a few seconds too many. He certainly could have ended you there, but he seemed to hesitate.
Your swords exchanged a few more times following that. Lord Phantomhive offered constructive corrections, but there was something missing. You could feel it.
“Time,” you called out, stopping where you stood. Your heart drummed in your ears, you caught your breath.
Lord Phantomhive froze immediately, attentively examining your face for clues of distress. “Everything all right?”
“Yes,” you nodded. Your eyebrows furrowed as you considered your next words, playfully exasperated. “I said I could take you on, and you’re holding back on me?”
“Who says I am?” Lord Phantomhive tilted his head. He had the nerve to look amused.
“Show me a real counter parry, my Lord. When I said I could handle you, I meant it. And a lady never lies,” you smarted.
“Well. I’m just getting started, my Lady,” the Earl said, dipping his head in a mock concession. “Forgive me if I’m out of practice,” he remarked. There wasn’t a hint of an apology in his tone.
“That’s reassuring.” You hummed. And then they were off, stepping back into en garde.
Sebastian counted the bout off again, and you were off. Freshly motivated, you pushed harder. The tempo finally stopped being polite. He was sharper than he let on, interpreting your blade as if he could predict your every move.
Every advance met resistance.
Finally, the two of you fought tooth and nail for initiative. He forced you to start thinking moves ahead, to step faster, turn sharper.
. . .
Ciel Phantomhive
When the flat tip of Lady Y/n’s sword touched Ciel’s dress shirt, he could’ve sworn his heart stopped. He paused, his gaze immediately darting down to her offending blade. She landed it just above his navel, pressing the blunt tip against his grey dress shirt.
Y/n nailed him with that expert riposte of hers.
Had this bout taken place two years ago, just before Sebastian deemed him to have outgrown constant practice, her blade never would have touched him. She never would have scored this point.
But that wasn’t the case, and unfortunately, the only explanation for Ciel’s loss was his slight lack of try.
His mouth felt dry, incessantly parched. He was silent for a beat, watching the foil sword’s blunt point retreat as Lady Y/n stepped back.
She met his eyes, laughing a little. Her gaze sparkled with a certain deviousness that Ciel could only describe as intriguing. He felt drawn to further explore that impish, nefarious expression of hers. Looks like those were unusual for a noblewoman like Y/n, she tended to default to the same politely detached, vacant expression, time and time again.
He preferred her like this. Dynamic, a little enraged. Genuine.
When she paired with the same snide grin Ciel tended to offer his own bested opponents. That kind of smile was immaculate enough to reprieve its wearer out of the worst kinds of trouble. It electrified his pulse with a new sense of urgency. Even more to the Earl’s surprise—and mild frustration—he found himself wanting to understand what exactly it was that broke that tepid mask of a noblewoman that she was so attached to.
He’s seen glimmers: when he asked her to elaborate on the engineering behind hydrogen balloons, school him in the intricacies of ferris wheels. Comparing their respective tastes in literature. Matching wits. And now, crossing swords.
“You’re fast,” Ciel told her, mutter the grudging compliment without thinking twice. He fashioned his face into an expression that wasn’t horrified at the prospect of his defeat. Thankfully, watching the way she blossomed from the win, it wasn’t too difficult.
Although every bit of his flesh and bones detested this sense of loss, a gentleman such as himself had to provide credit where it was due. Particularly if he aimed to maximize the impact this bout had on Lady Y/n. He would’ve been remiss not to note this foreign warmth blooming in his chest and stalling his breath. It persisted despite his petty horror and dissatisfaction from losing.
“Then if you hope to win, you might match my pace, my Lord,” Lady Y/n watched his face, looking for evidence of the Earl’s anguish—as if he’d ever offer anyone that satisfaction. She crossed her arms over her chest, foil pointing to the floor, and raised her chin. Stood taller. Waiting for his ego to possess him.
The Earl hummed flatly. He wasn’t entirely surprised by her competitive streak, anyway. He was out of practice, and she had a lot of rage to provoke. A point to prove. He welcomed this ignited spirit of hers; her stare was sharp and cunning as if she truly intended to skewer him straight through. Ferocious and unladylike. Exhilarating.
Let her try.
“And don’t offend me by holding back again,” Y/n demanded. She smiled viciously. Her nondominant foot stepped back, and its counterpart settled centimeters forward. She pointed the tip of her foil at him, sword arm poised and ready to strike. Like lightning. The tougher the better.
“As you wish,” Ciel mirrored her en garde. He raised his blade and stepped back, unable to ignore how the corners of his mouth turned upwards in a daring grin. Sweat gathered in his dark hairline, running down the nape of his neck. He bounced on the soles of his dress shoes, redistributing his weight. Wishing he were suited properly.
For all of Ciel’s scorn for his loss, he appreciated the prospect of marrying a woman who challenged his blade. Aside from providing the most immediate access to the top of TransAtlantica’s executive board, Lady Y/n was magnetically competent. Relentless like a knife’s edge, versed like a scholar.
Lady Y/n lunged straight for him, thrusting her foil in a front attack. She feinted, falsely extending her blade out in an effort to misdirect him. Just when Ciel felt confident she’d disengage, she drew back in towards him. He held his position, but she jabbed her blade towards him in a real thrust that he narrowly managed to parry.
Smart, but he was faster in his full capacity. It’d take more than a sneaky beat attack to score on him again. He drove his blade’s motion by turning his wrist.
Their blades clattered sharply at the impact. He intercepted her foil at the final line, just moments before she might have scored. Ciel counted off the seconds until she reached the optimal commitment point and acted accordingly. Her maid involuntarily shrieked a little, the mousy noise causing Sebastian to suppress a chuckle.
“Focus on redirecting the blade. Rather than stopping it,” Ciel explained, deflecting her attack with a parry in six. His words came a touch more smug than he intended them, but he couldn’t help himself. Even without Sebastian’s interventions, he observed Y/n’s somewhat compromising habit of swinging wider than necessary. Most of her competitors wouldn’t have caught it, but against someone like Elizabeth, it could cost her the match. “When you swing too broadly, you leave your side open.”
“Right,” Y/n muttered breathlessly, half-considering his commentary while she focused.
And then he drove his blade forward, a purposeful riposte. He recovered a step closer, reclaiming one she had stolen previously.
Y/n answered with a better parry, this time. This technique closely resembled his—the same inward turn of her wrist. Stronger. She protected her side, distributed the weight and successfully redirected his foil. Her counter-riposte would’ve clipped him, had he not trained under a demon for years. Frankly, if she hadn’t called him on it, he might have let her take the bout with that move.
Don’t hold back, she’d ordered.
And he seemed to have made a promise.
Therefore, he caught her blade in six and applied a fair amount of pressure on her outside line. It was a closing measure, one that made a wrinkle form between her knitting eyebrows, but she managed to hold steady, dragging his blade centerline. Almost all of the movement was in her wrists.
Ciel disengaged. He destabilized his lunge, the movement somewhat limited by the trousers he wore. They weren’t made for athletics. He hadn’t anticipated he’d be sharpening his own fencing skills today. Really. But this wasn’t much different than Sebastian forcing Ciel to save that child from the air balloon that just somehow floated loose.
Not unlike the way Y/n lost out of the blue.
Their blades continued to exchange; answering each attack and giving it directly back. The distance between them expanded and collapsed in patterns. Blades stayed in the short range between their chests and shoulders—just shy of awkward, given their heights.
All this, and still, Ciel observed Y/n as she exemplified a sense of fortitude he’d never seen of her at redundant social engagements. She’d normally paste on the best smile she could manage and grit out the same prosaic pleasantries but not here. He found himself crossing blades with the most met a genuine, unvarnished version of Lady Y/n Richmond-Y/l/n he’s ever encountered. St. Dunstan’s was his bloody witness.
It was true that only forces beyond himself could predict the sorts of situations a future Lady Phantomhive may find herself in. Whether that be a ship infested with reanimated corpses or some vengeful gang, safety was never a certainty on Ciel’s estate. At his side. Resilience was key, and she was the very portrait of it.
. . .
Y/n Y/l/n
The sound of your foils meeting echoed throughout the room’s high ceilings. The sun poured in through its large windows, some stained with ornate designs. That made the light shining out of those particular panes take on rosy and amber hues. Those shades reflected in Lord Phantomhive’s hair.
Though, as much as you wanted to admire him, you had a round to finish. A round to win.
The round was nothing short of exhilarating. Even outside of a typical fencing uniform, the Earl held his own against you. He struck precisely, his depth perception seamlessly adapted to his eyepatch concealing part of his peripheral vision.
A beat after he disengaged, Lord Phantomhive immediately extended towards you again. Seamless and merciless, just like you. Exactly as you asked. He gave you the opportunity to practice your parry, just as you wanted.
You mirrored the sharp turn Ciel’s wrist took on when he showed you that technique. You were only a few seconds late, but since your elbow kept close to your ribcage, you defended yourself. A surprised exclamation passed your lips as your foil disrupted Lord Phantomhive’s, just centimeters before his extension would have caught your blouse.
In response, you pushed your own blade forward again.
Lord Phantomhive parried. Then his counter riposte, taking notes from yours, and struck you just on the side. Your arm had been mid-rotation, forming a parry too late. In all fairness to you, that was a lightning strike of a lunge, one you could only respect. And perhaps it was a little flattering, too.
You regarded one another carefully, sharp with competition. But there’s also an intimacy there.
“All tied up. You fence beautifully, Lord Phantomhive,” you said lightly, swiping your forehead with the back of your gloved hand. You hadn’t faced such a challenge since the last time you fenced Elizabeth during practice. Both cousins seemed to be masters.
“That was a better parry,” he said.
“And that was a better riposte.”
You stepped back into your starting stance, and Lord Phantomhive did the same.
But just before you could get back into the throes of it, you froze the moment a familiar voice called your name.
“What on earth is going on in here?” Your mother asked, arm in arm with your father, surprise painted delicately on her elegant features. Visible tension left her shoulders when she saw Daphne there with you. Still though, there was a stiffness in her eyes that made you feel uneasy. “The luncheon outside started twenty minutes ago, my dear.”
“I was—Lord Phantomhive and I were—practicing,” you explained, smiling awkwardly. Your foil dipped just as the Earl’s did. “He was helping me perfect my parry in sixte. You know how I take to losing. I’m determined to return to this hall much improved by the end of this season.”
. . .
Ciel Phantomhive
“Practicing,” Lady Richmond repeated. Her eyebrows knit, puzzled. Her mouth pursed in a similar way to Y/n’s when she’s thinking. “You should come have some refreshments after such a long day.”
“My parrying,” Y/n said. Both she and her mother looked to Lord Richmond for his verdict. He huffed out something close to an entertained laugh, and to Ciel’s surprise, changed the subject at hand. “Since…today was a difficult match day.”
“Y/n. I assume you’re giving him the Earl here some trouble?” Her father asked expectantly, quickly taking in the situation. “Lord Phantomhive, good to see you,” he turned to Ciel.
“We’re almost finished here. The score was one to one,” Y/n explained, nodding tastefully to his question. “I need to perfect it to win the next tournament.”
“Of course she is, sir,” Ciel confirmed, ensuring to infuse the word with stoic warmth. He lowered his blade and extended his hand to the Earl of Richmond. They shook twice. Firm. Respectable.
“There will be plenty of time for that. Later. First, come join the rest of us. Eat something,” her mother urged. She gave Ciel another quick once over and a shallow nod, her face a touch colder than he’d otherwise like. To Ciel’s surprise, Lord Richmond seemed to take more of a liking to him.
“It appears that we’ll have to settle this another time,” Y/n turned to Ciel bashfully, lowering her sword. She sighed as she stepped off the piste. He followed in suit and returned Lizzie’s equipment to the bench.
“I’ll be better equipped. With gloves that fit,” he affirmed, making her laugh. The both of them followed her parents back through the main hall’s double doors, out to the large courtyard where the foundation set up rows of brunch tables.
“I’m counting on it,” said Y/n. Shortly after stepping outside, they made a quick rendezvous with Elizabeth, who nearly broke his ribs in a soul crushing embrace upon sight. She just had to chirp to Lady Y/n that this fencing tournament was the first Ciel’s bothered to come to spectate in the years she’d been begging him to.
“And I can only begin to wonder why that is…” Elizabeth had said, shamelessly fixing her large green eyes on Y/n. Changing the subject, Ciel recounted his and Y/n’s promenade on the pier, sharing that she’d sparked his curiosity when she mentioned the sport.
He was a lost cause from there, he said.
By any standards, the afternoon qualified as a success. He spent the rest of the fundraiser out in the courtyard with Y/n, Elizabeth, some of his extended family. The whole courtship routine was only growing easier with every outing Sebastian managed to turn awry.
. . .
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+ SYNOPSIS;; [HEADCANONS + short ONE-SHOT] the little earl's relationship with the fellow Phantomhive servant and their little nice friendship.
warning: Potentially very inaccurate characterization (sorry), no beta we die like the Phantomhives, slight angst
reminder: platonic!Ciel Phantomhive x Reader, gn!reader (they/them), I know uno doesn't exist in the victorian era, let me joke, Reader being described as "competent", but sort of an idiot in their own way
Please show support by reblog! (Request open)
- Trust. It wasn't something Ciel would give out so easily, he believes he shouldn't, he has learned that with his experiences.
- Just like the others he took you in as his servants for whatever purpose it is, he was of course skeptical of you.
- he didn't trust you at first, which is understandable, people have tried to sneak their way in the phantomhive manor with the intent and purposes to kill Ciel Phantomhive
- good thing Sebastian took care of those people.
- overtime he learned how to deal with you as much as he did with the others, of course that doesn't mean his full trust is in your possessions.
- If you aren't like the other servants and actually do your job without something exploding and it ends up with Sebastian taking care of it, he would call you "competent."
- trust me it's a good compliment since he is somewhat shy about his feelings and always having some sort of pillar in almost all of his relationships (intentionally or not)
- overtime you became one of those very few selection of people that he allows sees him fully.
- the boy would absolutely not admit it even if you try to force it out of him, he finds you fun to be around. Not too crazy or very outgoing fun but fun in a way that your silence can be good enough.
- you two often bicker and banter quite often, you might tease him a little bit for being uptight for his age and he will bark back at you with witty comebacks (with either amusement or annoyance, those two take turns sometimes)
- if you were the same age as him he might feel like he has someone to relate to even for a bit or a friend his age, yeah sure he has Lizzy because that's his fiance but he means in a 'friendship' sense that is quite warming inside
- if you were older than him, he would be attached to you but still sort of keeping his guard up a bit (if you know what I mean) a lot of adults or grownups in his life have hurt him, betrayed him in ways someone his age shouldn't experience. You give him that experience of normal relationships with people older than him and the normalcy feels good, but he doesn't realize that and would not admit it obviously.
- SOMETIMES and only sometimes he would obviously favor you over the other servants unintentionally or intentionally out of mischief, the others silently muttering 'lucky...' at you, it's funny.
- if you two were to have personal hang outs it would most likely consist of playing chess, sitting in silence besides each other, or doing completely different things in the presence of each other without talking
- of course he tries to remain the master and servant relationship professionally (somewhat)
- if you werent competent and you are like the others, always messing up, like— if you just somewhat blew up a shoe or something he would be like, "seriously..?" With an annoyed tired expression on his face.
- Ciel doesn't quite know how to express his emotions or give affection but he'll try, his way of giving affection would be gift giving, this is how he shows he cares for you.
- gifts are always unexpected from him, like you would be like cleaning something and he suddenly gives you a gift catching you off guard. "Well, open it.." he muttered a bit at you feeling quite embarrassed.
- it could be anything, something you stared at through the window of a shop, something relating to your interests, literally anything you mention once and never remember
- he's a sweet kid.
- and if you try to at least thank Ciel back for his kindness he would try to be all nonchalant and non emotional about it, he would scoff and then "don't get used to this" he exclaimed but you could tell from his tone he means well.
- If somebody else (it could be another noble, someone.passing by— doesn't matter!) tried to hurt you, physically or mentally— he would not take it lightly, like at all.
- Physically? Oh that person suspiciously disappears, Mentally? A possible reputation ruined or something..hm
- he denies it by saying he doesn't take it seriously or care that much but if you are observant enough you could hear in his tone, see him gritting his teeth and tightly clenching his fist that well, he does so.
- in those rare moments he would let himself be vulnerable with you, might allow himself to cry or tell you some of the things that have been hurting him but he doesn't need your pity.
- he appreciates it when you just listen to him and not try to give him a solution, pity or how to turn it all around. It feels nice, you just listen and comfort a bit if needed.
- you might even encourage him to indulge into just being a kid even if it's not for long and he has to play big scary and powerful earl again.
- "c'mon my lord!" You might float away in excitement when showing him this game he found down town. He would roll his eyes and be like "ugh fine." Begrudgingly. (He would end up enjoying plating with you)
- Sebastian of course notices the closeness you two share, of course he does
- Sebastian will tease (or even taunt) Ciel about it for a little bit before getting a "shut it." From the boy himself.
- Ciel would appreciate it if you don't try snooping around his background or past. He would be infuriated and possibly feel violated if you do
- so if you do respect his boundaries on the topic, he respects you for it.
- being a Phantomhive servant means you got crazy skills under all that idiocy you might have, he'll be impressed by your talents and capabilities
- him considering you as one of the competent ones in the bunch is just the bare medium (affectionately)
- you something that's somewhat silly and he just stares at you. Don't do that
- Ciel is quite glad he hired you in the first place, you get him in a way.
- he's glad that he got you as a servant, maybe a friend too.
A little one shot !
You two were playing chess.
It was late night and you agreed to play with Ciel and—
You were losing badly, very badly. You huffed at the young master quite childish he could almost roll his eyes. "You're cheating!" You accused him in a quite frustrated way.
He scoffs at you and then replies "I am not. Maybe learn to play better in the near future" he bites back quite bluntly.
"ugh you're so cruel at times my lord." You whined and Ciel could almost laugh at you
"In the game of chess, the most dangerous players aren’t the ones who move their pieces—they’re the ones who make you move yours without realizing it." He said to you both mysteriously and smugly for a bit.
You sigh, all oblivious to what he means. "Your metaphors always make me confused my lord, even when they sound so simple" Ciel chuckles at your exlcaimation
"Do you wanna play something else?" He raises a brow offering you to change the game, you nod at him and he looks at the selection of board games.
"can we play uno again?" You happily requested with a little clap
"absolutely not." He immediately declined
"aw." A sad noise came from your mouth with a little childish pout.
hey so I think our ciel could do with a break from it all. So can I have scenario where he and Sebastian had split on a mission. Ciel had messed up and he was knocked unconscious and dropped somewhere. His leg is broken. And then he finds himself waking up in a normal-ish bedroom (he has been taken to the slums in london for safety). First thing he is greeted with is a female reader his own age and her making him aware of his injury, where he is, and helping him relax. (Parents working so it’s just reader, they don’t have much food for an extra person, but they’re willing to feed him until he’s well. Reader had found him and he was gonna get mugged by some adults while he was unconscious and reader had saved him)?
A/N: I haven't written anything for Black Butler in SOOOO long, so this was very refreshing. I might need to rewatch the show again, but I hope this was good enough! Thank you so much for your request!!
Navigation!!
Word Count: 1,527
A Fragile Refuge
The first thing Ciel Phantomhive felt was pain. A sharp, throbbing ache pulsed through his leg, radiating into his hip and stomach. His eyes fluttered open, vision blurry, and instead of the cold, grimy cobblestones of London’s back alleys, he found himself staring up at a cracked ceiling with faded wallpaper curling at the edges. The room smelled faintly of soap and woodsmoke, but also of something simpler, something lived in.
His chest tightened. This was not the mansion. This was not Sebastian.
A chair scraped nearby.
“You’re awake,” a voice said softly.
Ciel turned his head, wincing. A girl sat beside the bed, roughly his own age. She wore a plain dress, mended in places, her sleeves rolled up as if she had been working. Her eyes met his, steady but cautious, like she had been waiting for this exact moment.
“You should not move too much,” she added. “Your leg is broken.”
He blinked, trying to push himself upright, but the pain shot through him so sharply that he gasped and fell back onto the thin pillow.
“I told you,” she murmured, reaching to adjust the blanket over him. “You will only make it worse.”
Ciel swallowed, his pride bristling. “Where am I?”
“In my house,” she said simply. “The slums, near the river.”
“The slums?” His voice was sharper than he intended.
“Yes. You were left in the street. Some men were about to take whatever you had, and they would not have stopped there. I dragged you away before they could.”
Ciel stared at her. His mind was foggy, pieces of memory slowly assembling. He and Sebastian had been split up in the alleys during their mission. He remembered the blow to his head, the sudden blackness, and then… nothing.
“You saved me,” he said carefully.
She nodded. “I could not leave you there.”
Ciel tried to sit up again, but she pressed a hand to his chest. For someone so small, her touch was firm. “You need to stay still. You have lost blood. And food, you probably have not eaten. We do not have much, but I will share until you can stand again.”
Her words cut him in a way the pain in his leg could not. He was used to being served, to having anything he wanted brought before him. Yet here was a girl with nothing, offering what little she had without hesitation.
“You should not waste what you have on me,” he muttered, turning his face toward the wall.
She frowned. “It is not a waste if it helps you live.”
Silence hung between them for a moment. Then she rose, crossing the small room to a wooden table where a chipped bowl sat. She brought it back and placed it carefully on the bedside stand. Inside was broth, thin but steaming.
“It is not much,” she admitted. “Mostly water and scraps. But it will help.”
Ciel looked at it, his pride warring with the hollow ache in his stomach. Finally, he sighed and picked up the spoon with shaking fingers. He hated how weak he felt, hated the thought of looking helpless in front of her, but hunger won. The broth was plain, but the warmth seeped into him, calming the pain for a moment.
As he ate, she sat quietly, hands folded in her lap. At last, he asked, “Why?”
She tilted her head. “Why what?”
“Why save me? Why bring me here when you could have left me?”
Her eyes softened. “Because you looked like someone who needed help. And because you are my age. If I were lying there, I would hope someone might do the same for me.”
Ciel stared at her, unsure how to respond. Sympathy was something he had grown to mistrust. Yet she spoke without hesitation, without any trace of calculation.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Y/n,” she said. “And you?”
For a moment, he hesitated. To give his true name was to reveal more than he should. But looking into her steady gaze, he found himself saying quietly, “Ciel.”
“Ciel,” she repeated, as if testing the sound of it. Then she nodded. “It suits you.”
He almost scoffed, but stopped himself.
The days that followed blurred together. Ciel could not move much, the pain in his leg keeping him confined to the small bed. Y/n tended to him with simple but careful patience. She fetched water, changed the cloths on his wound, and made sure he ate at least once a day.
Her parents were gone from dawn until night, working wherever they could. Ciel rarely saw them, though he could hear their tired voices drifting through the walls when they returned.
One evening, as Y/n adjusted the splint on his leg, he asked, “You said your parents work. Where?”
“Factories sometimes,” she said. “Other times, they carry loads at the docks. Whatever pays for bread.”
“You should not have to live like this,” he said before he could stop himself.
She glanced at him. “And yet I do. We all do here. It is not so bad when you are used to it.”
Ciel fell silent, guilt stirring inside him. He thought of the mansion, the warm meals, the endless supplies of clothing and luxury he took for granted. And here she was, offering scraps to a stranger without a second thought.
Later that night, as he lay awake listening to the creak of the floorboards and the distant rush of the river, he found himself wondering what Sebastian was doing. Was his butler searching for him? Was the mission abandoned? Or was this, for once, something he had to face without anyone at his side?
One morning, he woke to find Y/n sitting cross-legged by the window, mending a tear in her dress. The light fell across her face, softening the tired lines beneath her eyes.
“Does it hurt much today?” she asked without looking up.
“Less,” he admitted. “I may be able to stand soon.”
“You should not rush,” she said gently. “If you fall again, you may not heal at all.”
He gave a frustrated sigh. “I am not used to being so useless.”
Her lips quirked faintly. “You are not useless. You are healing. That takes strength too.”
He turned to study her, puzzled by the calm certainty in her words. “You speak as though you have done this before.”
“I have,” she said. “My brother broke his arm once. We had nothing, but he mended all the same. You will too.”
Ciel shifted against the pillow. “I will repay you for this, you know. For the food. For everything.”
She looked at him then, finally setting the needle aside. “You do not have to repay me. I did not do this for a reward.”
“People always want something,” he said, his voice colder than he intended.
“Not always.” She smiled faintly. “Sometimes people just want someone to be all right.”
Ciel could not look at her after that. His pride told him to refuse her kindness, to shut her out. But another part of him, smaller and quieter, found comfort in it.
The night before he was strong enough to try standing, Y/n brought him another bowl of broth. She sat with him while he ate, her chin resting on her hand.
“You will leave soon,” she said softly.
“Yes.” His spoon paused. “I have people waiting for me.”
“I thought you might.” She hesitated, then added, “Will I ever see you again?”
Ciel studied her. The sensible answer would have been no. Their worlds were far too different. Yet looking at her, at the girl who had saved him without asking for anything in return, he found he could not dismiss her so easily.
“Perhaps,” he said finally. “The world is not so large as it feels.”
Her smile was small, but real. “Then I will hope for it.”
When he finished the broth, she took the bowl away. As she set it aside, Ciel spoke again, quieter this time.
“Thank you, Y/n. For everything.”
Her eyes widened slightly, then softened. “You are welcome, Ciel.”
For the first time since he had awoken in that little room, he let himself rest without tension, trusting that he was safe until morning.
The request: I once read a fic where the reader was Ciel's (O!Ciel of course) mistress and (I think it was at a brothel? This was years ago I don't remember) but I've kinda always loved the idea of that kind of forbidden romance, and it is romance the reader and Ciel would never admit it aloud but he's in love with his favorite "pastime" as much as reader is in love with her most frequent visitor.
So I guess what I'm requesting is a scenario like that, being Ciel's dirty secret who he DEFINITELY isn't in love with and how they desire each other carnally even if their stations keep them apart, at least in the warmth of Reader's bed that wouldn't matter even if just for a time. You can make it ambiguous if he's married to Lizzie or not, I'd love the drama of it but hate hurting Lizzie even if indirectly so I'll leave that to you.
If this request doesn't spark joy it's fine if you delete it! But obviously thanks if you do, have a nice day! ♡
Author note for the requester and basic knowledge on the piece:
Well, well, I think I know exactly the fic your referring to as I read it back in the day! We were starved for OCiel x reader content back then huh?
Am I dating myself by admitting to scouring the internet back in the early days for OCiel content (long before he was OCiel…)? Probably.
I will be ambiguous, editing the idea in several ways, in certain aspects as I used to write 'out of marriage' sexual pieces; but since then I have moved away from that, and like to do 'sex within marriage' as there's such a huge lack of delicious content in this area across writing platforms. Get ready for sickening fluff and pining cause I am going to pour the feels like hot tea and by no means are the thoughts and feelings less than steaming between these two love birds. ;)
Lastly, I apologize for taking months to get this back to you. I hope it meets your standards and you can forgive the time line. I poured my brain into this.
This goes hand in hand with a twist to an AU I have already listed! What a treat to get this request and seeing it line up with an AU close to my heart! I went a bit overboard on historical elements but if anyone knows early 20th century England/French brothel chagrin (or any details for that matter) please reach out. I need your brain.
Warnings: talk of sex and feelings, no sex done just brain teasers here! Discussion of sexual topics and exploration of early 20th century England brothels. Pining with a sexual undertone.
Important info: French isn't my first language (or any language I know) but I do admire it, appreciate it, and find it enchanting. As much of what we know of prostitution was drawn from the French, correct me if I'm wrong lovelies, I will be using French terminology to define and explain things and a pick up line. Please correct me if I have spelled something wrong or if I have misused information.
As always reader is female and our Earl is aged up to his twenties. Hence the 20th century (early 1900s instead of late 1800s) take on this piece.
Red Light By Day, Cereluan Eye By Night
She waited.
Day and night. Knee bouncing, finely manicured nails tapping, hair done up and shined with oil, skin prepared for the best night of her life. A rosy flush already creeping up her neck like a innocent fawn emerging from the brush to a field for the first time.
Exillerating. He'd come once, now thrice already since they had met months ago. Always paying a generous fee for the entire night like some civil hero saving her from the dragons that proweled at her door. One night she was free of the work her position called for. One night she was just a woman in love.
He never bargained for her bed, though he did lay in it with her. Trading gentle touches and a kiss that coated her soul in silk. He brought her such things too, jewels and the like that would make a lady weep. But she was no lady, no swan of society, pure to the touch and had never looked at a man's body, let alone knew not know how to please. No, she was a succubus, a temptress who had tried to lure him in, but instead he had captured her like a fisherman with a large hook. He'd simply batted her vain attempts away and broke into her mind, making that shiver instead of her body that heated with every glance of his cerulean eye.
He played chess with her often, though she was no where the master he was at such a game. He just smiled as each time he took her queen and spoke to her of his business and stresses. A normal, almost domestic exchange that had her diving into a fantasy of a world where they could be together.
She knew his work in the underworld, for she herself was a creature of its claws. Courtesy of a trade made she was whisked from a kitchen maid to the red lips of the lights that guarded the dark corner of society. All for better pay...
Her eyes watched the streets from where she sat, busy with customers and drink. Several "insoumiaes" (unregistered girls) twittering along looking to line their pockets with fresh coin. The Soho Area was her dwelling place now. To outsiders she looked a respectable lady, no tell from her clothes when she walked the streets during the day to stretch her legs from long nights with them at her ears. Her house had taught her how to blend in, and while she was a "verseuses" (waitress) for the nobles who came to the luxurious apartments for rich, lavish sessions among refined woman of talent, she herself was more coy and remembered the years she'd spent on a corner before her madam had plucked her from her pimp and housed her, clothed her, bathed her, taught lessons and mannerisms befitting a lady, hair pins and jewels only added to the expenses. Such generosity she'd be paying the rest of her life with no end to the growing debt.
She hadn't minded till she'd met him. The man with a stare to level a battle field. He had caught her while she was out, asking about some sort of crime that had taken place the night before. How he had spotted her as a lady of the night had baffled her. She didn't look any different than the next woman of class out and about for a daily stroll.
Her heart had raced for another reason besides fear though. He was gorgeous. Pretty in a sense that made her want to caress his jaw for hours while one of her patreons sketched him for her visual delight to remember between sessions. She had been struck by cupid and he seemed none the wiser to her plight.
She lets her lips pull back over well cared for teeth, a sign of her pristine health and care. That alone attracted clients like gnats to fruit. The memory of him blinking as she offered him a round with her playfully hadn't been his intention, but she had offered anyway, intending to bed him before any one else could. A girl has to be greedy with such a pretty face after all.
To her shock he'd refused and instead insisted he speak with her on a case, something about his butler being useless for the task this time. Odd man.
That had started their budding redevous where they would meet and overtime ...it became more. Much to her delight.
The problem was his stubborn pride. For all that she wanted he never gave in. Her appearing in her corset and deglecherie did nothing but make him blush (cute as it was). He never bedded her much to the growing itch she couldn't scratch nor relieve.
So after the second attempt, naked as the day she was born thrown across her lavish bedding for his eye, failed, she decided to play his game and so back went on the stocking and corset, ribbons and buttoned front of the low neck gown he never let his eyes trail to for long. Pity, but she would take what she could from him.
The cast of a familiar top hat and a walking stick's resounding click on the stone street drew what little patience she had left to the surface as she dared to rise from her perch. Heart, half strung out on her tongue, it seemed to lace with the cords of bronchi in her lungs that expanded in a rush while she pondered if it was him or if she was simply over reacting. Many men wore top hats and walked with a cane. It meant nothing.
Yet the click still summoned her will to cool and burn like incense in a dish to perfume the hair and skin. Ignited to become ash.
So down she went, pulled by the thread of fate and her own anxieties to know just who was walking by or dared to enter her cage that gleamed with gold. Down into the belly of a flooded house that smelled of cigars and opulence to fine for most ladies of her work to touch, yet someone had to serve such men of class. Down into the forked tongues of dignity and pride that spit on such work by day but crawled up skirts in the night.
And there he was. Hat removed and coat being handed off to the valet that brushes the shoulders of the fabric with a boar bristled brush just for show. Everything was a show.
But he wasn't. Yet there he stood adjusting his cuffs and collar, eye scanning for threats as if the house would let anyone harm him while he poured coin into the Madonna's pockets.
That cerulean eye reflects the red lamp from outside, caught in an indigo hue.
Her breath caught, heart tumbled out to the toe of his polished black shoe. She could feel each pulse her body willed to speak of just how enraptured she'd become in his grasp.
And that eye. It spoke of the same fate she had carved in her bones, the same poison between them that would never come to fruition and take them both.
“Tu dois être fatiguée parce que tu as trotté dans ma tēte toute la journée.” Her rouge lips part in a smile, hand lingering on the wooden banister as she would never let her worth be lowered by approaching him like the other girls. Back straight and chin lifted with mirth hidden in honeyed sap fit to lick off her, she wandered the haze cloud of smoke as a phantom, not a human draped in gems.
Checkmate.
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Word key:
Tu dois être fatiguée parce que tu as trotté dans ma tēte toute la journée.- You must be tired, as you have been running in my head all day.
The Soho area was a real section of London dedicated to an early 19th century brothel-like atmosphere for the rich and lowly depending on where you went and how much you spent. It was shut down in the mid 19th century.
Brothels often used different beauty techniques from around the world. With Prince Soma being an active part of the Kuro universe I decided to bring one of the older beauty practices from the East into this piece. Using incense to scent the hair and skin. This would create an association with a scent on a woman with a particular house that used a special blend. Keeping customers who were drawn to it coming back. Similar to how today we like cologne or perfume and when someone smells good we ask about it. Scent memory is another way to create bonds and desire.
